A Test of Endurance

Chatting with my dear old mother last night she remarked that, on this day in 1959, she married my father. This would have been their diamond wedding anniversary were it not for the fact that a) they split up ten years later; b) they got divorced in 1970; c) father died suddenly in 1997 aged just 58.

Mother did recall that her new groom decided to read out the result of the Grand National during his wedding speech which was, perhaps, a sign of things to come (it was won by Oxo at 8/1  - mother felt she was made a laughing stock...) Legend has it he married again in 1973  - on the same date to another woman who had the same name. That marriage didn't last either...

My mother is of the opinion I have many of my father's traits which I don't think is meant as a compliment. The fact that when I re-married four years ago I read out the result of the Hearts game played that day is neither here or there.

The fate of my parents marriage impacted on the life I would have. My mother remarked as much last night.

'If we hadn't got divorced I wouldn't have left Cumbernauld and taken you north to Aberdeen' she said. True.

'Then you wouldn't have met Pat (my first wife)'. True again.

'You wouldn't have had your daughters Laura and Michaela'. Indeed.

'And you wouldn't have your five little horrors grandchildren' Hmm.

'And it's unlikely you would have ever met Marion and got married again'.

At this point I asked her a question.

'Why the hell couldn't you and my father have stayed together...?'

😜😜😜😜

Some Things Will Never be Forgotten

It's not been a great weekend for the Auld Reekie Ranter. One of those weekends when just about everything that could go wrong did go wrong. We all have them  - times when you just have to forget and move on.

Three weeks from my wedding to the lovely Marion and one or two hitches have emerged. Nothing that can't be overcome but the pre-wedding nerves are jangling just that little bit more.

Hearts lost in the league for the first time this season just to add to the woes of the weekend. A weekend that would have seen my grandmother's 106th birthday and my father's 76th birthday.

I think they would have both approved of my bride-to-be, particularly my father who would, I'm sure, have declared Marion far too good for me. And he would have been right.

Today is also Robert Burns' Day, Scotland's famous national poet, who was born on this day in 1759.

It may have been a weekend to forget for the Ranter - but some things will never be forgotten.

15 Years On

My father, daughter Laura and wife Pat at Laura's 1st birthday in 1987

I find it remarkable that today marks 15 years since my father died. He was taken away from us very suddenly following a heart attack in 1997, at the tragically young age of 58.

Despite three marriages and three sons to two different wives, he died alone  - indeed, police had to break into his home in Paisley after no one had heard from him for a few days.

Given the events of this year, I wish more than ever he was still around to offer me advice on a difficult personal issue. Tonight, I sit alone with just a bottle of brandy for company. I raise a glass and offer this little tribute to him.

If I could write a story
It would be the greatest ever told
Of a kind and loving father
Who had a heart of gold

I could write a million pages
But still be unable to say,
Just how much I love and miss him
Every single day

I will remember all he taught me
I'm hurt but won't be sad
‘coz he'll send me down the answers
And he'll always be 'My Dad'

A Birthday Remembered

My father would have been 73 years old today. Sadly, a decade and a half has passed since he was taken away from us. I was touched by my elder daughter Laura's words on Facebook:

Again today so sad I cry
Another year has passed us by
Wish heaven had a phone to call
And wish you the happiest birthday of all.

Underneath her hard exterior lurks a sensitive wee soul!

Raising a Glass

Regular visitors to this blog may realise that today marks the anniversary of the untimely passing of my father. 14 years on and he's still very much in my thoughts. I like to think he's looking down with his heart swelling with pride at his great-grandchildren, Jack, Hannah and Ava. My auld fella doted on my two daughters Laura and Michaela and he would have been immensely proud of the way Laura is bringing up her children.

So, tonight, I raise my glass to the original Papa. Here's to you, auld man.

A Father Remembered

Early in March 1997 I arranged to take my daughters Laura and Michaela through to Paisley to see their beloved Papa. I phoned him the Saturday before to confirm the arrangements; the usual routine, we would take the train through from Edinburgh and he would pick us up from Paisley Gilmour Street station. My father and I were practical kind of fellas so we didn’t usually bother with confirming the day before what was going to happen - we just did it.

So it was that I took the girls through on a Saturday afternoon. They were both excited as they loved seeing their Papa - he usually let them away with things I didn’t, such was the role of the doting grandparent as I would subconsciously demonstrate years later. And dote on them he did. By this time - early 1997 - my father was sadly on his own again. He had split from his third wife and had recently moved into a council flat in Paisley. He remained friends with the woman I used to call Mrs Smith III but he was back to living on his own once more. It was almost as if he preferred it that way. Our visit that Saturday was to be our first to his new flat in a not exactly upmarket area of Paisley.

We got off the train in Paisley around 2.00pm. Unusually, there was no sign of my father. He was many things but he was always a man of his word - when he said he would be somewhere he usually was. 1997 were the days before mobile telephones were in such widespread use so I headed for the nearest call box (ask your parents, younger readers) in an attempt to phone him at home. No reply. Well, he must be on his way I thought to myself, although it certainly wasn’t like him to be late. After waiting at Gilmour Street station for half an hour - although with an increasingly bored Laura and Michaela it seemed like two hours - there was still no sign of him. By now, my anxiety had increased. This was so unlike him. I had his new address so I decided to jump on a bus and head round to see him.

Eventually, we got there only to find there was no reply. There was silence, no sign of life - as it turned out literally so. My wife Pat had been working that day until early afternoon but I called her from Paisley asking if my father had been in touch. He hadn’t been. He had previously mentioned about going away for a weekend with Mrs Smith III in an attempt to patch up their relationship so I asked Pat to phone her. I called Pat a few minutes later - she confirmed there had been no answer from Mrs Smith III’s home either. That was it, I assumed. The old blighter had gone away for the weekend with his estranged wife and had forgotten about us! Although something didn’t sit right about it. It was most unlike him, normally the most organised of people. We headed back to Dalkeith, somewhat irritated over our wasted journey. My irritation increased over the weekend as repeated phone calls to Mrs Smith III’s house weren’t being answered. That had to explain everything - she was obviously away for the weekend as well - with my absent-minded and absent father.

It wasn’t until three days later on the Tuesday evening when I returned home from work that the bombshell dropped. The telephone rang. It was Mrs Smith III. Had I seen my father? she asked. My heart sank. She explained she had been away for a few days - but not with my father. She had been to see her daughter in Ireland. Now I feared the worst. I have two half brothers who at that time lived in Cumbernauld with my father’s second wife - their mother. Mrs Smith III said she would contact them and phone me back. I anxiously paced the room, my heart pounding. I just knew this was bad news. Half an hour later, the phone rang again. It wasn’t Mrs Smith III. It was my Uncle Jack - my father’s brother-in-law - phoning from Aberdeen.

The police had broken into my father’s flat in Paisley and found his body slumped in a chair. He had been dead for several days - certainly he had been lying there the day I had gone to see him with the girls. The newspaper lying on his lap indicated he had died the day after I had spoken to him on the phone the week before. His heart simply could take no more and stopped. Mercifully, he had not suffered any pain when he died although I didn’t find that particularly comforting at the time.

Devastation overcame me. I had become closer to my father than at any other time in my life and now he was gone. Gone before I had the chance to tell him how I really felt about him. Gone before I could thank him for helping me make a life for myself in Edinburgh. Heart-breakingly, gone before he could see Laura and Michaela grow up and develop into two wonderful people of whom my father would have been so proud - and before Laura had produced two equally wonderful children of her own, Jack and Hannah. How my father would have doted on those two wee scamps…

His death was the one of the worst episodes of my life. Like most people who lose a loved one, I miss him terribly, even today, thirteen years on. I went into automatic pilot mode for the funeral and the immediate aftermath. I didn’t grieve properly until some time after and on my own. In my mind I wanted to go somewhere no one could find me. It’s a trait that remains with me to this day and is now evident in my daughters, particularly Michaela who has had her own tragedy to deal with in the past year.

Every year since 1997, on the eleventh day of March, I take time to remember my father and reflect on his passing. This year will be no different…

A Father's Plea

Apparently today is National Non-Smoking Day. I know for sure that today is 11 March. Twelve years ago this very day my father was taken from me suddenly and quite unexpectedly. Our family has a history of heart disease. My father's father died from a heart attack in his mid forties. My father fell to a similar fate on this day in 1997 alone in his flat in Paisley. He was found slumped in his armchair with a newspaper on his lap. His death, at just 58 years, stunned me. That he didn't suffer was merciful. However the shock of hearing he had died will live with me forever.

A couple of years earlier, I remember him telling me he had been to the doctor. He hadn't been feeling well, had a painful shoulder and was feeling breathless quite easily. He told me the doc scribbled something down on a prescription pad and pushed across the desk to him. It wasn't a prescription for medication. It read simply 'Stop Smoking'

Both my daughters smoke. despite my protestations. Laura, my eldest, remembers her Papa well and his funeral was the first such occasion she had been to. She was just eleven then. Michaela, my younger daughter, was just seven when my father died and we thought she was just a bit too young to be exposed to such emotional trauma. But they both remember their Papa and, of course, they will never forget him.

I have nothing against people who choose to smoke tobacco and, indeed, I feel they have been persecuted somewhat in today's politically correct, nanny state. I tried the odd cigarette many years ago but didn't enjoy it. My daughters know I'm immensely proud of them. But I wish they would seriously consider the damage smoking can cause to their health. There's every chance that my father may still be alive today if he hadn't smoked. And he would have lived to see his grand-daughters grow up to be two fine young women - and he would have doted on Jack and Hannah, my grandchildren.

The above photograph was the last one taken of my father and my girls. A few weeks later he was dead. If Laura and Michaela want to do something in honour of the memory of their Papa they can do one thing.

Give up smoking, girls. Please.

Remembering

Today, my father would have celebrated (or rather he would have tried to hide the fact) his 70th birthday. He would have - had he not been taken away suddenly nearly twelve years ago from those who loved him.

Everyone goes through the trauma of losing someone they love at some point in their life. When that person dies suddenly - in my father's case it was a heart attack - the shock of what has happened can numb those left behind. I went into automatic pilot when my father's body was discovered in the flat he lived in Paisley in March 1997. So much to do, so many people to tell, the funeral to organise, personal matters to see to. My father ran his own small business so that also had to be attended to. Clearing his answerphone at his office damn near broke me in two.

But while you never 'get over' such tragedy you do learn, in time, to cope with it. When I look at my two grandchildren Jack and Hannah climbing all over me and causing general chaos as young children do, I know that my father would have been as proud as punch of them. He doted on my two daughters, Laura and Michaela (the above photograph shows him and Laura when she was three years old) and it is one of my life's regrets that he died several years before his great-grandchildren came along.

So today I shall raise a glass to my old man and say 'cheers' to his memory. I'll have a wee natter with him in private when no one else is around. He always was a good listener...