Today would have been Dad's 76th birthday. Instead of reflecting on that fact, we're taking Missy Woo, Monkey and a few of her friends to the cinema to see Tangled and then to McDonald's(yeah, bad mother - what of it?). An entirely different birthday to the one my dad would have liked, although no doubt, he so would have indulged Missy Woo - she would have had him wrapped around her little finger.
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Sunday, 10 July 2011
Forever in my thoughts
Today would have been Dad's 76th birthday. Instead of reflecting on that fact, we're taking Missy Woo, Monkey and a few of her friends to the cinema to see Tangled and then to McDonald's(yeah, bad mother - what of it?). An entirely different birthday to the one my dad would have liked, although no doubt, he so would have indulged Missy Woo - she would have had him wrapped around her little finger.
Wednesday, 15 June 2011
Dads
I've written about my Dad before, and I feel I've written about him enough. I've probably bored you all rigid talking about him in previous posts. So, today for the theme of Dads at the Gallery, I'm going to talk about another Dad - my husband's dad and Monkey and Missy Woo's granddad, my father-in-law.
At the end of last year, he was diagnosed with a bowel tumour. The prognosis was good but he had to have radiotherapy followed by an operation. The operation was either going to be keyhole surgery - for which a short hospital stay would be needed - or more invasive surgery, requiring a stay of one to two weeks. The irony for me was that he was having the operation on a day significant to me - the tenth anniversary of my Dad's death.
The operation didn't go well, requiring some quite major surgery. What we weren't prepared for was what happened afterwards. He moved wards several times as his condition dictated and sometimes to get the care he needed (sad but true), gradual improvement followed by relapses, and a lot of frustration. He managed to have a trip home one weekend to see how he got on, only for him to become really quite ill a few days later, extending his stay even further. The children weren't allowed into the wards he was on quite a lot, so they saw him a few times when they were allowed to visit but not half as often as they would do normally. Quite difficult for them as they love seeing Granddad (and Granny).
Finally, he left hospital, in mid-March. That one or two-week stay had become 3 months. Christmas didn't really happen. New Year was a blur. He went in during midwinter with snow on the ground and came out as spring approached.
Since leaving hospital, he's continued to improve - he's had regular visits to hospital for ongoing treatment, including one further overnight stay, but was soon home again. He's gradually become more mobile, although he's still walking with a stick. He's been back to see Blackpool play again (poor thing) and they even finally went on a Baltic cruise that they had previously had to cancel because of his illness.
The day after they came home this weekend, we held a family party. The weather was rank. The lady delivering hotpot managed to get lost coming from about two minutes away and someone had to be sent to help her find the house. It didn't matter. Everyone in the family made it to the party, except one grandson who had university exams. It was a lovely afternoon. One of those slightly chaotic but fun family parties.
There was a cake, which we put candles on and my brother-in-law made a speech. It took about 10 minutes, with various people cracking jokes and interrupting him; partly, I think, to relieve the tension. Because, by the end of the speech, everyone was in tears. After a difficult few months, it was truly a cause to celebrate that this Dad is still around for this year's Father's Day.
So my picture today was taken at that party. My father-in-law surrounded by his family.
At the end of last year, he was diagnosed with a bowel tumour. The prognosis was good but he had to have radiotherapy followed by an operation. The operation was either going to be keyhole surgery - for which a short hospital stay would be needed - or more invasive surgery, requiring a stay of one to two weeks. The irony for me was that he was having the operation on a day significant to me - the tenth anniversary of my Dad's death.
The operation didn't go well, requiring some quite major surgery. What we weren't prepared for was what happened afterwards. He moved wards several times as his condition dictated and sometimes to get the care he needed (sad but true), gradual improvement followed by relapses, and a lot of frustration. He managed to have a trip home one weekend to see how he got on, only for him to become really quite ill a few days later, extending his stay even further. The children weren't allowed into the wards he was on quite a lot, so they saw him a few times when they were allowed to visit but not half as often as they would do normally. Quite difficult for them as they love seeing Granddad (and Granny).
Finally, he left hospital, in mid-March. That one or two-week stay had become 3 months. Christmas didn't really happen. New Year was a blur. He went in during midwinter with snow on the ground and came out as spring approached.
Since leaving hospital, he's continued to improve - he's had regular visits to hospital for ongoing treatment, including one further overnight stay, but was soon home again. He's gradually become more mobile, although he's still walking with a stick. He's been back to see Blackpool play again (poor thing) and they even finally went on a Baltic cruise that they had previously had to cancel because of his illness.
The day after they came home this weekend, we held a family party. The weather was rank. The lady delivering hotpot managed to get lost coming from about two minutes away and someone had to be sent to help her find the house. It didn't matter. Everyone in the family made it to the party, except one grandson who had university exams. It was a lovely afternoon. One of those slightly chaotic but fun family parties.
There was a cake, which we put candles on and my brother-in-law made a speech. It took about 10 minutes, with various people cracking jokes and interrupting him; partly, I think, to relieve the tension. Because, by the end of the speech, everyone was in tears. After a difficult few months, it was truly a cause to celebrate that this Dad is still around for this year's Father's Day.
So my picture today was taken at that party. My father-in-law surrounded by his family.
Dad of five. Grandfather of fourteen. Great-grandfather of two. Happy Father's Day.
Monday, 18 April 2011
This song reminds me of you...
That's the theme of this week's Playlist and I admit to being stumped at first. I have commented on other posts that I tend to associate songs with times and places rather than people. I can remember, for example, being in a café in Somerset and hearing Tainted Love on the radio because it had just reached number one. Totally irrelevant but hearing it takes me back to that moment.
So, associating a song with a person for me is hard. But there is one song that I do associate with one person. My Dad. As you will have probably read before on this blog a few times, he died in December 2000. He missed meeting his first grandson by just over 4 years. He doesn't know I'm married with two kids, he doesn't know that my sister is married too. He doesn't know that he's about to become a step-great-grandfather.
I associate this song with Dad because my mum chose this to be played at his funeral and it made me cry. A few years later, I was watching High Fidelity because I am a big John Cusack fan. His character, Rob attends a funeral and he lists to camera the songs he'd like to be played at his funeral and this was included in the list. It brought it all back and I burst into tears. Even now, hearing this song makes me cry and, well, I just want my Dad back, if truth be told. I've got it playing in the background right now and I have tears in my eyes, but then, writing about Dad always does that to me.
I love you, Dad. And I miss you.
So, associating a song with a person for me is hard. But there is one song that I do associate with one person. My Dad. As you will have probably read before on this blog a few times, he died in December 2000. He missed meeting his first grandson by just over 4 years. He doesn't know I'm married with two kids, he doesn't know that my sister is married too. He doesn't know that he's about to become a step-great-grandfather.
I associate this song with Dad because my mum chose this to be played at his funeral and it made me cry. A few years later, I was watching High Fidelity because I am a big John Cusack fan. His character, Rob attends a funeral and he lists to camera the songs he'd like to be played at his funeral and this was included in the list. It brought it all back and I burst into tears. Even now, hearing this song makes me cry and, well, I just want my Dad back, if truth be told. I've got it playing in the background right now and I have tears in my eyes, but then, writing about Dad always does that to me.
I love you, Dad. And I miss you.
Friday, 24 December 2010
Dad's Chestnut Stuffing
You'll know, if you do read my blog regularly, that Christmas is a time for remembering my Dad, as he died just 8 days before Christmas. I don't really want Christmas to be a sad time because we had so many good times at Christmas. When I was a child, Dad did a lot of cooking when his very long working hours allowed him. Before I was born, my mum had been quite ill and very often had no appetite so Dad would cook. He did a lot of the Sunday roast stuff and he did a lot at Christmas - full dinner on Christmas Day, mince pies, the lot.
When I was about 10, Dad was given a recipe for chestnut stuffing by a friend of his called Don. Don ran a vintage wedding car hire business, was brilliant at restoring cars - until it came to lifting the bonnet. Dad used to do extra work for him in the evenings and at weekends fixing and restoring engines. Dad was never happier when tinkering with cars.
I helped Dad to make this the first Christmas but we did everything down to boiling the chestnuts. We had (and my mum still does have) the tiniest of galley kitchens to work in and in the hour that it took to boil the chestnuts, the place got so hot, I felt faint. I really can't be bothered with that anymore so I tend to buy tins of chestnut puree but you can also buy vacuum packs of cooked chestnuts that you can mash - or just chuck in the food processor.
I reckon I have made this every year that I have cooked Christmas dinner. I actually honestly do love doing it - I plan it carefully and have a timetable to follow so that I don't forget anything. And this year, I will be following the advice in English Mum's great guide. But my one constant is this recipe to go with the turkey (a crown in this house, as we have such a small oven). Mum still has the original recipe, written in Don's handwriting, with notes from Dad, as well as Dad's signature and address scrawled on the page for some odd reason. I have two photocopies of it but I typed it up a few years ago so that I never lose it. I've amended it for my purposes these days and as I have a food processor, make it really simply by bunging it in there and mixing. I cannot do Christmas without this now - it reminds me of Dad and helping him in the kitchen. Of happier times. Don also passed away a few years ago and it reminds me of both of them. Sadly, for me, the last conversation I had with Don was over the phone - telling him that Dad had died.
Oh, and the recipe contains this dire warning if you do boil your own chestnuts in large letters - pierce chestnuts BEFORE boiling!
Chestnut Stuffing
serves 4-6
Ingredients
1 small packet of sage and onion stuffing
1 small onion, peeled and quartered
225g/8oz pork sausagemeat (or 4 good sausages, skins removed)
1 small egg, beaten
50g/2oz breadcrumbs
2 rashers streaky bacon
225g chestnut puree (or similar amount of cooked chestnuts)
Snip the bacon into small pieces. Place everything in the bowl of food processor and mix. Season with salt and pepper.
If you don't have a food processor, snip the bacon into a bowl, and chop the onion finely. Add the sage and onion stuffing, and breadcrumbs and stir to combine. Add the sausagemeat, the chestnut puree or chestnuts (whole ones should be mashed with a bit of butter first), and beaten egg. Season and mix together (you may need to use your hands to knead it together.)
The stuffing can be made into balls or do as I do - I make double quantities and pack it into a loaf tin, which saves space in my oven! This freezes well uncooked - I made mine a few weeks back and I'll take it out of the oven today ready for the big day tomorrow. It takes at least 40 mins to cook (allow up to 50 mins) so can be cooked once you have the turkey out resting. I sometimes do a bit of butter on top, or spoon over some of the juices from the turkey to keep it nice and moist.
I love cold leftovers of this as much as I do having it with my Christmas dinner. And, of course, when I eat it, I think of Dad - and smile.
Merry Christmas everyone! Have a great time and a wonderful New Year. Thanks for reading my blog during 2010.
When I was about 10, Dad was given a recipe for chestnut stuffing by a friend of his called Don. Don ran a vintage wedding car hire business, was brilliant at restoring cars - until it came to lifting the bonnet. Dad used to do extra work for him in the evenings and at weekends fixing and restoring engines. Dad was never happier when tinkering with cars.
I helped Dad to make this the first Christmas but we did everything down to boiling the chestnuts. We had (and my mum still does have) the tiniest of galley kitchens to work in and in the hour that it took to boil the chestnuts, the place got so hot, I felt faint. I really can't be bothered with that anymore so I tend to buy tins of chestnut puree but you can also buy vacuum packs of cooked chestnuts that you can mash - or just chuck in the food processor.
I reckon I have made this every year that I have cooked Christmas dinner. I actually honestly do love doing it - I plan it carefully and have a timetable to follow so that I don't forget anything. And this year, I will be following the advice in English Mum's great guide. But my one constant is this recipe to go with the turkey (a crown in this house, as we have such a small oven). Mum still has the original recipe, written in Don's handwriting, with notes from Dad, as well as Dad's signature and address scrawled on the page for some odd reason. I have two photocopies of it but I typed it up a few years ago so that I never lose it. I've amended it for my purposes these days and as I have a food processor, make it really simply by bunging it in there and mixing. I cannot do Christmas without this now - it reminds me of Dad and helping him in the kitchen. Of happier times. Don also passed away a few years ago and it reminds me of both of them. Sadly, for me, the last conversation I had with Don was over the phone - telling him that Dad had died.
Oh, and the recipe contains this dire warning if you do boil your own chestnuts in large letters - pierce chestnuts BEFORE boiling!
Chestnut Stuffing
serves 4-6
Ingredients
1 small packet of sage and onion stuffing
1 small onion, peeled and quartered
225g/8oz pork sausagemeat (or 4 good sausages, skins removed)
1 small egg, beaten
50g/2oz breadcrumbs
2 rashers streaky bacon
225g chestnut puree (or similar amount of cooked chestnuts)
Snip the bacon into small pieces. Place everything in the bowl of food processor and mix. Season with salt and pepper.
If you don't have a food processor, snip the bacon into a bowl, and chop the onion finely. Add the sage and onion stuffing, and breadcrumbs and stir to combine. Add the sausagemeat, the chestnut puree or chestnuts (whole ones should be mashed with a bit of butter first), and beaten egg. Season and mix together (you may need to use your hands to knead it together.)
The stuffing can be made into balls or do as I do - I make double quantities and pack it into a loaf tin, which saves space in my oven! This freezes well uncooked - I made mine a few weeks back and I'll take it out of the oven today ready for the big day tomorrow. It takes at least 40 mins to cook (allow up to 50 mins) so can be cooked once you have the turkey out resting. I sometimes do a bit of butter on top, or spoon over some of the juices from the turkey to keep it nice and moist.
I love cold leftovers of this as much as I do having it with my Christmas dinner. And, of course, when I eat it, I think of Dad - and smile.
Merry Christmas everyone! Have a great time and a wonderful New Year. Thanks for reading my blog during 2010.
Friday, 17 December 2010
Today is the day...
... that I said good-bye to you for the last time. I didn't know that I would leave you, and Mum sat there with you, and that you'd be gone within 2 hours, forever. I knew it wasn't right but the prognosis was a few days and I had to come home to go to work.
Before I left, I made sure that someone was on their way to be with Mum for a while. After all, she hadn't planned to come and see you today but something made us come and see you. I called Carolyn and she made plans to come and see you straight away.
I left, fully expecting to be called back in a day or two. I was two-thirds of the way home when my phone rang with a voicemail message. I pulled into the next services and it was Mum asking me to ring her. She was very matter of fact when I spoke to her but she told me that you'd gone. Carolyn was still on her way - she never made it. I didn't know what to do. I rang my friend, just to talk to somebody and tell them. I drove the rest of the way home in a daze.
I knew it was coming.We'd known for a while that the end was nigh. I knew what Mum's wishes were in terms of your treatment. I knew it would happen. However, that last day was a shock. Even from the day before, the deterioration was visible. We didn't know what you did and didn't know anymore anyway. All I know is that you knew my voice, and the staff said that you were always brighter after I'd visited. That morning, when I said good-bye, I told you it was OK to go now. I just didn't think it would be so soon.
For a long time, I didn't really feel anything. We coped - over Christmas, with your funeral looming over the festive season, through the funeral on a clear but snowy day, when I cried but only a little bit. I started a new job in a dreamlike state a few days later. For months, I was not in a good place, with being away from home a lot and other issues in my life. I began to feel like I'd been abandoned, although I wasn't angry with you for that. How could I be? I was a mess emotionally for a good few months until I gave myself the proverbial kick to get on with life. It was what you would have wanted me to do, cliché that it is.
Since then, I have got married and had two children - your only grandchildren, although you have four beautiful step-grandchildren that you loved as your own. You would have been so proud. They would have loved you to bits and Missy Woo would have had you wrapped around your little finger. I think it was then that the loss of you really hit home to me. They are beginning to understand now that you're not around - Monkey asked me once why you always went away we went to stay at Mum's. It broke my heart that they thought you didn't want to see them. I had to explain that you were somewhere you couldn't come back from, although I think they might still think you are in Devon. Given the chance, you would still be there with them, playing with them, giving them sweets and taking them out on day trips.
Every now and then, like tonight whilst I am writing these words (and others in the past) the tears start to flow freely. It is when the emotion really overtakes me. I think too hard, that's the trouble.
Because you were the man, the constant in my life from birth. Having suffered a loss of a stillborn baby, you had no way of knowing if I would be born alive but I was and you chose my name. You raised me along with my sisters and worked long, long hours to pay the bills. You let me get on with living my life, to make choices and to make my own mistakes, from a fairly young age. You were there for me but you weren't critical - you just accepted what I did and supported me through it.
I graduated on your 51st birthday. You were so, so proud that day. No-one in our family had ever been to University. You looked fit to burst.
Ten years. Ten long years. In that time, my life has changed beyond recognition. I wonder if you ever thought I would become a mother. I wonder if you would be proud of the person I have now become, of the things I do, of my lifestyle. I suspect, knowing you, that you'd be mostly proud, but you wouldn't comment on the rest. You wouldn't see it as your place to do so.
Today is the day you went away, ten years ago. Fate and life has been cruel, meaning I can't have time to myself today, gathering my thoughts and memories of you. I need to mark this tenth anniversary in some way but I'm not sure quiet contemplation will be possible. Perhaps I should spend some of the day hugging my children and showing them that I love them. For the biggest tribute I can pay to you is to love them as much as you loved your own children, to raise them knowing they are loved, that they know it's OK to make mistakes, and to be the kind of parent that you were to me.
I miss you, Dad, but I am so proud of you, of the man you were as well as the Dad you were to me. You live on in our memories and in the people we became. And for that, I thank you.
Rest in Peace, Dad.
Brian Thomas Giles 10th July 1935 - 17th December 2000
Before I left, I made sure that someone was on their way to be with Mum for a while. After all, she hadn't planned to come and see you today but something made us come and see you. I called Carolyn and she made plans to come and see you straight away.
I left, fully expecting to be called back in a day or two. I was two-thirds of the way home when my phone rang with a voicemail message. I pulled into the next services and it was Mum asking me to ring her. She was very matter of fact when I spoke to her but she told me that you'd gone. Carolyn was still on her way - she never made it. I didn't know what to do. I rang my friend, just to talk to somebody and tell them. I drove the rest of the way home in a daze.
I knew it was coming.We'd known for a while that the end was nigh. I knew what Mum's wishes were in terms of your treatment. I knew it would happen. However, that last day was a shock. Even from the day before, the deterioration was visible. We didn't know what you did and didn't know anymore anyway. All I know is that you knew my voice, and the staff said that you were always brighter after I'd visited. That morning, when I said good-bye, I told you it was OK to go now. I just didn't think it would be so soon.
For a long time, I didn't really feel anything. We coped - over Christmas, with your funeral looming over the festive season, through the funeral on a clear but snowy day, when I cried but only a little bit. I started a new job in a dreamlike state a few days later. For months, I was not in a good place, with being away from home a lot and other issues in my life. I began to feel like I'd been abandoned, although I wasn't angry with you for that. How could I be? I was a mess emotionally for a good few months until I gave myself the proverbial kick to get on with life. It was what you would have wanted me to do, cliché that it is.
Since then, I have got married and had two children - your only grandchildren, although you have four beautiful step-grandchildren that you loved as your own. You would have been so proud. They would have loved you to bits and Missy Woo would have had you wrapped around your little finger. I think it was then that the loss of you really hit home to me. They are beginning to understand now that you're not around - Monkey asked me once why you always went away we went to stay at Mum's. It broke my heart that they thought you didn't want to see them. I had to explain that you were somewhere you couldn't come back from, although I think they might still think you are in Devon. Given the chance, you would still be there with them, playing with them, giving them sweets and taking them out on day trips.
Every now and then, like tonight whilst I am writing these words (and others in the past) the tears start to flow freely. It is when the emotion really overtakes me. I think too hard, that's the trouble.
Because you were the man, the constant in my life from birth. Having suffered a loss of a stillborn baby, you had no way of knowing if I would be born alive but I was and you chose my name. You raised me along with my sisters and worked long, long hours to pay the bills. You let me get on with living my life, to make choices and to make my own mistakes, from a fairly young age. You were there for me but you weren't critical - you just accepted what I did and supported me through it.
I graduated on your 51st birthday. You were so, so proud that day. No-one in our family had ever been to University. You looked fit to burst.
Ten years. Ten long years. In that time, my life has changed beyond recognition. I wonder if you ever thought I would become a mother. I wonder if you would be proud of the person I have now become, of the things I do, of my lifestyle. I suspect, knowing you, that you'd be mostly proud, but you wouldn't comment on the rest. You wouldn't see it as your place to do so.
Today is the day you went away, ten years ago. Fate and life has been cruel, meaning I can't have time to myself today, gathering my thoughts and memories of you. I need to mark this tenth anniversary in some way but I'm not sure quiet contemplation will be possible. Perhaps I should spend some of the day hugging my children and showing them that I love them. For the biggest tribute I can pay to you is to love them as much as you loved your own children, to raise them knowing they are loved, that they know it's OK to make mistakes, and to be the kind of parent that you were to me.
I miss you, Dad, but I am so proud of you, of the man you were as well as the Dad you were to me. You live on in our memories and in the people we became. And for that, I thank you.
Rest in Peace, Dad.
Brian Thomas Giles 10th July 1935 - 17th December 2000
Saturday, 10 July 2010
75 years ago today...
My Dad was born in Westgate in Kent.
You can read the post I wrote about my Dad last week here. I don't think there is anything else I can add in tribute to him.
Happy Birthday, Dad, wherever you are.
Kate x
You can read the post I wrote about my Dad last week here. I don't think there is anything else I can add in tribute to him.
Happy Birthday, Dad, wherever you are.
Kate x
Tuesday, 29 June 2010
The Gallery - Emotions
This week's post is on the theme of Emotions but is a combination of Tara's Gallery and Josie's Writing Workshop on Sleep is for the Weak. Visit them both if you can. There are lots of great blogs just waiting to be discovered!
This is going to be difficult as the picture I've chosen evokes a lot of emotions in me. It's of me and my dear departed Dad. Sorry about the quality of the picture; I've had to scan it in as it was taken before digital cameras really came along.
This is the last picture I have of you, Dad. I keep it in my bedroom in a frame. Mum hates it - she prefers to remember you as you were before you became ill. I have plenty of those pictures. A whole lifetime's worth. This one is precious, to me anyway.
When I look at this picture, I feel a strong mixture of emotions. Sometimes, they overwhelm me. They are doing right now, in fact. There are tears in my eyes as I type these words.
I feel happiness because in this picture, we are not only just both smiling, we are laughing. We're probably not laughing at the same thing but it is a shared moment, on Christmas Day. For all the happy times you gave us, for the times where you had us helpless with laughter at one of your "misguided tours" around Devon or Somerset.
I feel sadness because we won't get to share such moments again. You left us close to Christmas in 2000, and this picture being taken at Christmas serves to remind me of that. It's bittersweet. That the last few months and years of your life, you didn't really understand what was happening to you, and in the month and years before that, you did know and were probably very scared but never showed it.
I feel pride that you were my Dad, that you became a Dad in all but name to my two half-sisters and brought us all up the same, that you gave them a life they wouldn't have had otherwise and that they chose you to give them away at their respective weddings, not their biological father. Of the many, many hours that you put in at work to earn a living enough to pay all the bills with 4 daughters to support. I also feel humbled that you took on so much, so young, and that you came through it - and a lot more - with Mum.
I feel gratitude that, because of all the support you gave me in early life, I was able to do all the things I have achieved thus far. You never stopped me doing anything, you never pushed me into things I didn't want to do. I made my own way, and you let me make my own mistakes. That, in itself, was a fantastic education, in life itself.
I feel devastation that you never got to meet my children, your only actual grandchildren. You were a great granddad to my sisters' children; you would have been just as fabulous a granddad to mine and they would have adored you - and make no mistake about it, Missy Woo would have you wrapped around her little finger. She is Carolyn all over again - even their birthdays are a day apart, just 5 days before your own. A little while ago, they started asking questions about you and I wanted to cry.
I feel anger that you have left us here, but when I think about it, it's not anger with you but with myself, for not making the most of our time together. I know you wouldn't begrudge me one minute of time away from you though and that, if you could have understood, you would have supported my move to Lancashire in the last 18 months of your life.
I feel pain. It will be ten years this Christmas, Dad, and it doesn't get any easier sometimes. The pain never goes completely. You just learn to control it so that you feel its full force less often. Today, Dad, I'm feeling it as sharply as the day you died. I still remember stopping at Stafford services and ringing Mum and her telling me that you'd gone, just an hour and a half after I left you having said goodbye for the last time. I remember it like it was yesterday. That you are now free of the physical body that failed you, that your "spirit, flying high, is soaring free" as we had written in the book of remembrance, gives me some comfort.
When all's said and done, I will always miss you, but your influence on me will never leave.
Brian Thomas Giles. 10th July 1935-17th December 2000. RIP.
This is going to be difficult as the picture I've chosen evokes a lot of emotions in me. It's of me and my dear departed Dad. Sorry about the quality of the picture; I've had to scan it in as it was taken before digital cameras really came along.
This is the last picture I have of you, Dad. I keep it in my bedroom in a frame. Mum hates it - she prefers to remember you as you were before you became ill. I have plenty of those pictures. A whole lifetime's worth. This one is precious, to me anyway.
When I look at this picture, I feel a strong mixture of emotions. Sometimes, they overwhelm me. They are doing right now, in fact. There are tears in my eyes as I type these words.
I feel happiness because in this picture, we are not only just both smiling, we are laughing. We're probably not laughing at the same thing but it is a shared moment, on Christmas Day. For all the happy times you gave us, for the times where you had us helpless with laughter at one of your "misguided tours" around Devon or Somerset.
I feel sadness because we won't get to share such moments again. You left us close to Christmas in 2000, and this picture being taken at Christmas serves to remind me of that. It's bittersweet. That the last few months and years of your life, you didn't really understand what was happening to you, and in the month and years before that, you did know and were probably very scared but never showed it.
I feel pride that you were my Dad, that you became a Dad in all but name to my two half-sisters and brought us all up the same, that you gave them a life they wouldn't have had otherwise and that they chose you to give them away at their respective weddings, not their biological father. Of the many, many hours that you put in at work to earn a living enough to pay all the bills with 4 daughters to support. I also feel humbled that you took on so much, so young, and that you came through it - and a lot more - with Mum.
I feel gratitude that, because of all the support you gave me in early life, I was able to do all the things I have achieved thus far. You never stopped me doing anything, you never pushed me into things I didn't want to do. I made my own way, and you let me make my own mistakes. That, in itself, was a fantastic education, in life itself.
I feel devastation that you never got to meet my children, your only actual grandchildren. You were a great granddad to my sisters' children; you would have been just as fabulous a granddad to mine and they would have adored you - and make no mistake about it, Missy Woo would have you wrapped around her little finger. She is Carolyn all over again - even their birthdays are a day apart, just 5 days before your own. A little while ago, they started asking questions about you and I wanted to cry.
I feel anger that you have left us here, but when I think about it, it's not anger with you but with myself, for not making the most of our time together. I know you wouldn't begrudge me one minute of time away from you though and that, if you could have understood, you would have supported my move to Lancashire in the last 18 months of your life.
I feel pain. It will be ten years this Christmas, Dad, and it doesn't get any easier sometimes. The pain never goes completely. You just learn to control it so that you feel its full force less often. Today, Dad, I'm feeling it as sharply as the day you died. I still remember stopping at Stafford services and ringing Mum and her telling me that you'd gone, just an hour and a half after I left you having said goodbye for the last time. I remember it like it was yesterday. That you are now free of the physical body that failed you, that your "spirit, flying high, is soaring free" as we had written in the book of remembrance, gives me some comfort.
When all's said and done, I will always miss you, but your influence on me will never leave.
Brian Thomas Giles. 10th July 1935-17th December 2000. RIP.
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