Dad: Seeing is Believing

Cavalry twill
a twist in material,
make his beige trousers
neat, to complete
his attire a red satin
waistcoat and smart
checked jacket.
Dame Judy Dench
an actress he adores,
True Grit his favourite film.
A single brown spit
lands in the spittoon,
the bucket responds by hurling
an echo around the room
a smoke-filled saloon,
where curls of exhaled tobacco
make a green-horn choke,
where rye-soaked whiskers
are gently stroked by the
card-hand, caressing a queen.

He is lean.
He is mean.
His chair creaks,
hips slide forward
teeth bite down hard
on his cigar and suspense
oozes out of the silence,
hovering above
menacingly, penetrating,
coiling around the half-cocked
revolver out of site.

His right index finger
squeezes the trigger,
releasing the hammer.
Dad sneezes as the bullet
explodes from the barrel.
His arthritic hand is massive,
clothed by a white handkerchief
his knuckles protrude making
a rocky surrender.

Dad rises slowly,
shuffles towards the tv
and that's when it struck me,
how pronounced the curvature
in his spine,
how much lower his right
shoulder is than his left,
how cumbersome the splint
on his left leg to correct
the bow in his shin.
It wasn't that long ago
he would saddle up
and ride out, raising
eyebrows and rattling
a tin, for charity.

Dad is strong.
Dad is steadfast
in the guise of John Wayne.
No hail of bullets
no shower of arrows
will pierce his muscle and bone.
He never groans,
he doesn't like confrontation.
From a conversation
he will choose pieces
and put them together, gradually
making sense, no pretence
that's how it is at 92.

Time has now meaning,
he doesn't sleep.
Each week there is a routine.
As long as he can eat,
have a pint with a whiskey-mac
now and then, he'll pack
a bag, scoot off to the
day centre spending hours
making bird tables, plant troughs,
windmills and wheelbarrows.

It is heartwarming to admire his
craft that is much desired.
The money raised
could purchase a cowboy dvd,
but he's not daft, it swells the
amenity fund for ice creams
by the sea.

The sea was cold that day,
as cold as the damp night air
in 1938. No one to greet,
no, "Hi mate". Steam clothed him,
hugged him like his mother's
arms and sank, eerily below the
platform.
The stranger had vanished.
Looking up at the drizzle
fragmenting the glare from
a street light,
that night did not welcome him,
that night was unhomely.
But a smile reflected hope
through a glimmer in his
landlady's eyes.

A new beginning,
a joyous escape from his room
soon turned to trudging
knee-deep in muddy
footings, making shuttering at
County Hall.
Aye, bye-and-bye,
the full moon beckoned him home.
And, then, there was Ivy.
Oh! how they laughed and loved
and walked the Rhododendron Mile,
riding high never hesitating,
never thinking for a moment
what life held in store.

Later, he would draw upon his 'true grit'
like never before.
The dreaded transfer to Bristol,
the bed that broke,
bombs dropped and
deluge that choked the air.
Doodle-bugs, sirens, shelters,
above despair they rose.
Rows and rows of repetition
preparing amunition.
'Your Country Needs You!'

They joined in support
for the Battle of Britain.
Dad helped to make the Hurricane,
Spitfire and Beaufighter.
Would Britain ever be Great
again?

Then the war was over
and there they stood.
Stunned, affected for
the rest of their lives
by something they never
really understood.

Today, we live in a paradise
and, yet, people say
Britain isn't great anymore.
Ivy has long departed from this world.
The 'extended' family is no more.
For those who are left,
will medicine, science and technology
make their horizons believable,
achievable? Dad ponders on his
next bird table.

At 92 you could think he would
spend more time snoozing in a chair,
but I do the reminiscing now.
Ankle deep in a sea of crisp shavings,
no tolerance of a millimeter would be allowed
he was a perfectionist right from the start.
I couldn't see the art of wood then, simply
intoxicated by the smell of rosewood, ash,
teak, mahogany and pine, nourishing oil
and turpentine.

Oh! how it is so natural for me now,
to drive a plane and shear off the skin
of a two by two. To use a chisel and go with
the grain as if I'd been doing it all
my life.

He may not have achieved his
horizons, but he is fantastic for his age,
up to speed with everything and able
to debate current affairs.
Whimsical, happy and content
he is, my dad,
a cool dude, a dapper gent.

Carol Mattingley.