The Light – Part One

Living life with Freddie was indeed very interesting, loads of fun, sometimes a bit challenging, but mostly a loving experience!

My father was sixteen years older than my mother, because of the huge age gap they decided to start a family within the first year of their marriage.  My mother, on announcing that she was pregnant, was informed by a very excited father to be that he wanted a girl, she would have red hair, be born on his birthday and that he hoped she would be a defender of the people. My kind, loving father making such bold claims!

If the truth be told, everyone, including the doctor tried to tell him that things don’t always happen as planned – he was not to be swayed. I was going to be born on his birthday and that’s it.

In each district of the Methodist Church convened an annual Synod (an assembly of the clergy and interested parties) to provide leadership as well as spiritual direction on matters pertaining to the Church. Whilst my father was attending Synod, I was born on a bitterly cold day, in Maclear – on his birthday. Friends and colleagues as well as the President of gathering encourage him to go home.  Those kind souls donated enough money for my parents to buy a pram.

Three and a bit years later my sister Vanessa was born and two years after her my sister Fiona was born.

Three feisty and cheeky girls!  According to Freddie exactly what he wanted.

He was kind, strict, loving, funny and creative.  He encouraged us to use our imaginations and he told the very best stories.

Navigating life in a manse was never easy.  The house, furniture, appliances, crockery all belong to the church.  At times some members of the congregation took it upon themselves to behave in a very nasty and interfering manner. Freddie always defended us and was so quick to remind everyone that we were just children; the manse was our home, a place where we could just “be”.

Therefore my parents discouraged the congregation from using the manse as a meeting place. One day my sisters and I decided to play “church/church”, I could not have been much older than 10 years old and my sisters were obviously a lot younger.

We placed all our dolls, bears and soft toys in the pews, we had an old black gown that my father used and discarded as it was rather frayed and faded. We took it in turns to preach, hell fire and brimstone to the dolls, pretend to play the organ whilst singing along lustily and out of tune I might add, oh yes I almost forgot, we passed the collection plate around. We were having such a wonderful time. When lo and behold one of the elderly congregants stormed into the church, yelling. “The three of you wait here, while I fetch some of my friends to witness this really bad behaviour”! Off she skulked to the church hall where her wonderful Christian friends were having a meeting. My little sister ran out of the church and fetched my father. As this tribe of irate old woman entered the building, my father was there to meet them. In a very calm manner he asked us girls to go home, and then he asked the old ladies to leave the church.  Once they were all outside, he went wild. These old biddies had never seen him so cross. Without a word they left hurried off the premises and left us alone for a long time.

Occasionally, before dropping us off at school, the movies or visiting a friend he would say:

                        “My fairest child, I have no song to give you.

                        No lark can pipe in skies so dull and grey

                        But ere you leave one lesson I must leave you

                        For everyday

                        Be good sweet maid and let whoever wants be clever

                        Do noble deeds not dream them, all day long

                        And so make life, death and that vast vale

                        Forever one long sweet song”   Charles Kingsley

Another sweet memory I have growing up was when he used to read Paul Gallico’s “The Snow Goose“ to us. It is a beautiful, poignant story about a wounded goose, a young girl and an artist.

Always be kind was his mantra, treat everyone with respect and dignity, always offer them a cup of tea.

Our house became a safe haven for people who were lost, lonely or temporarily homeless.

However, his driving skills left much to be desired. We always maintained that he was surrounded by thousands of angels. He did exactly as he pleased and always managed to charm his way out of any traffic offence.

In later years he owned a little yellow mini, armed with a tin of yellow duco spray paint he conquered the world, banged and bashed his car and had a few scraps with the law. My sisters and I would roar with laughter at his antics, reversing into a pole or a wall he would hastily jump out of his mini clutching the paint spay can he would make the bump or scratch disappear and with a naughty glint in his eye he would say “Don’t tell your Mother!”

In all seriousness my father constantly gave of himself, he was involved in so many charities, visiting folk in hospital, a gentle calm listening ear.  His relaxation was playing golf.  Often times he would just take himself off to the golf club for a few holes, just to walk and be alone with his thoughts.

A friend of mine related a very funny story about a Saturday afternoon tournament.  According to Terrence, he partnered with my Dad to play against two local chaps.  Now these chaps were on their best behaviour, trying desperately not to swear. Eventually, my Dad said to them: “Please swear, your golf is terrible!”  They obliged him, their game improved and everyone enjoyed themselves.

I am so grateful to you, Freddie, for teaching me never to take life too seriously, to laugh at my silliness and to always treat others with kindness.

To be continued…