friend teacher taskmaster defender and finally father

I looked up the word Muse in the dictionary and it means: “source of artistic inspiration”. I was wondering, can a brother be a muse? I find myself constantly being “inspired” by his blog to write something in my own J

The latest source of inspiration is Peter’s love letter to Mum! When I first read it I thought: “do we actually come from the same stable?” I am not questioning the sentiments expressed but the fact that he can express them! And then I pondered and thought maybe the difference is he was brought up by Mum and I was brought up by Dad? Or maybe it is the 20 years between us and the fact that Mum and Dad would have been quite different parents by the time Peter was growing up. First of all because they had lived a lot longer and had a lot more experience, secondly because they had got sick of fighting rebelliousness by then and finally because they were already acting in the role of grandparent at that stage. And we all know grandparents are allowed to SPOIL their kids and not expect to discipline them as much as parents are supposed to do! Because I feel that expressing ourselves emotionally and sentimentally is something we learn, as opposed to a character trait. But maybe I am wrong. Or maybe it is the language of lovers? And so it is all Natalie’s doing! Thank you Natalie!

I did the same soul searching when I first read Helga’s letter to Dad which we included as part of the Eulogy. Her sentiments for Dad were quite different to what I felt when I was young. She was talking about admiring Dad and as a little girl having a crush on him. He was her ideal and she wanted to marry him…or someone quite like him.

And then my sister Susie had quite different feelings. She didn’t feel so close to Dad and saw him more as a person to be feared. Dad being as silent as he was, didn’t show much of himself to his children and there is great sadness in this because it meant that there was not as much closeness as there could have been.

So what did I feel when I was younger? And what do I feel now? And how come it is Dad I am being inspired to write about and not Mum?

Ah well….how can one fathom the twists and turns of the mind?

My father was first and foremost my teacher. I do remember times of fun even going back to when I was very young. When we still lived at my grandmother’s house – so in the first 4 years of my life. Before my sister was born. Here is one that comes to mind:

Dad lying in bed and me trying to pull him out of bed. I pulled so hard that I pulled my arm out of its socket. Mum was horrified and we thought it was broken. It was put in a sling and I walked around quite a number of days with that sling….getting the most out of all the sympathies. Until our second checkup with the doctor who announced that the arm had jumped back into the socket seconds after beig dislodged and that I was actually “faking” it. Of course that was the end of all sympathy. Mum took that arm and squashed it into the coat sleeve. I didn’t even wimperJ

Another incident I remember well happened a few years later. We had moved to the city. And it was close to Christmas. I was out walking around with a friend from next door who was a bit older than me and with Renate’s son who was just a tad younger. Renate is Mum’s best friend and I used to call her “aunt”. The three of us visited the local church and admired the nativity scene. We knelt in the front row and in front of us was a row of little cardboard boxes which contained money. They were money boxes donated by various children to a charity. And I remember that we looked at each other. I asked my friend what were the boxes for and she said that they were there for little children to help themselves to. We were all pre-school age probably around 5 or 6 years old. So we each took one and giggled. And I can clearly remember we stuffed them under our jumper. Why? Especially if we thought we weren’t doing anything wrong? Obviously we didn’t quite believe her but took them anyway. Behind us were rows of older women who were quietly praying in the chapel. We headed out, opened our boxes, pocketed the money and threw the boxes into the nearest bin. Then we went to the closest kiosk and stocked up on lollies and chewing gum. My “cousin” had to go home early because his mother was waiting for him. I hung out a bit longer. Big mistake. Of course we left home without a cent in our pockets. So when my cousin walked in chewing gum, a dead giveaway. His mother, a keen detective, wanted to know exactly where that gum came from. And of course he blabbed the whole story. By the time I came home there was a welcoming committee waiting for me. My father was the ringleader. He made it clear to me that I had committed the crime of the century. And he would try and make amends. The next day I was told I had to go to the presbetery, knock on the door and “confess” my deed to the local priest. I fronted up at the presbytery. It was a large forbidding ancient stone building. At least it looked huge from the 6 year old perspective. I walked around and around until I gathered the courage to go to the front door and knock. To my horror, it was opened by a VERY TALL and BIG priest wearing a black robe. He smiled and asked me to come inside. And I spluttered out the story and told him I was very sorry. I can’t remember what he said to me but I am sure it was something along the line of “don’t do it again” or some such thing. All I can remember is for YEARS feeling guilty about this heinous crime. Steeling from Jesus. How LOW can you get? This story was still haunting me as an adult. One day I ventured to discuss it with Dad and he burst out laughing. Told me that when he met up with the priest they had a good old laugh first and then concocted out a suitable punishment. Well…they certainly did a good job of hiding the humour of the situation from me for a VERY long time J

Next I remember Dad the teacher. He taught me EVERYTHING. I was the biggest knowall in class! Much to the dismay of many a teacher. Maths was his favourite and so became mine. For goodness sake…I learned about NEGATIVE numbers before I knew that the easter bunny was a fake! My teachers often told me to tell my father that it was their job to teach me! Unfortunately he wasn’t that good at teaching me to spell. Anything that I had to learn by rote…was a big disaster. Anything that required logic, I took to like a fish in water. But the punishment for failing was huge. The teachers required me to write words out again and again and again. However that wasn’t good enough for Dad. He would wipe my slate again and again and again until the words were not only spelled right but also looked like a perfect picture of art. I hated doing things repetitively. I can still remember sitting in front of blank little slates and just staring ahead of me…not getting the enthusiasm to write even one line….after all…I knew it would just be wiped clean! My friends were all playing outside and I was sitting there most of the afternoon staring at blank slates. Unless I was practicing the recorder. Dad certainly tried very hard to teach me musical instruments. But I didn’t like all the practice that went with it. And he tried teaching even my friends and turning us into a small band. To me it just meant more and more practice inside, when all I wanted to do was get outside. Must have been pretty dumb in those days. I could have completed my homework in a fraction of the time if I had just gone and done it instead of staring at the blank slate.

My Dad was also my great defender. When there was any discrimination at school he went to great lengths to set it right.

The first and pobably only time I was ever smacked was one day when I had 5 spelling mistakes. The dictation passage was on my slate, with the wrongly spelled words crossed out and in HUGE cipher the number 5 written underneath. And I was supposed to show that to my parents. I was scared stiff. Dad didn’t like failure. He spent so much time with me that he expected perfection. But 5 mistakes that was the pits. On the way home I had to go through a park and here I sat on a bench with my friend to decide what to do. I did the only thing I could think of.
Spent an entire hour trying to “fix” some of the mistakes. Painstakingly wiping out the word and line through it and then writing it without mistake. Then trying to smudge it a bit to make the wiped out spot disappear. Not easy to do on a slate (miniture black board)! And finally correcting the 5 to a better number. And making it look like the teacher wrote it. Seemed to take for ages. Eventually I headed home. For some reason my father was home that afternoon. And waiting for me. I think he must have been sick because I can remember him jumping up from bed when I walked in, grabbing me and giving me a decent smack. For coming home so late. He had been worried sick. I don’t even know if he looked at that bloody slate! Just remember well that I copped it anyway! Of course as a child I felt badly done by ….and never really understood the worry that coming home late would have caused.

And then later on I remember countless hours and days spent fixing his car. We were already in Australia by then. Working with him in dark rooms developing photos. I remember asking for a camera for one of my birthdays. And it was only given on the proviso that I develop my own films! And asking for a radio for christmas. Instead getting a book on how to build your own crystal receiver.  I was the oldest in the family. I guess Dad just decided I could do for a substitude son until my brother Gerd was old enough to take over!

Dad and I were great mates. But he often made me fume. I certainly NEVER can remember wanting to marry him. In fact as a teenager I wanted to marry someone who was NOTHING LIKE my Dad. The attention that he gave me was sadly often not appreciated. Where my sister admired his many skills, I simply wanted to be left alone to while away the time the way I wanted to! In fact I remember talking with my girlfriend about our future husbands. She was dead keen to marry a german. Didn’t want an Australian, or a French man (she was French) or and Englishman. No…she wanted a German. All I ever wanted was to marry an Australian man! And my last preference was german! (by the way: she did marry a German, but it didn’t work out. And against my better judgement so did I for a short time, and it didn’t work out. I was right about marrying an Australian. He has the tolerance to cope with my independent nature. Thanks Dennis – I love you with all my heart. So I am happily married to an Australian who is happily married to a German woman…something he told his mother he would do when he was a child …and they didn’t have any German friends at the time.…now isn’t that a strange coincidence?)

Why did I feel like this? Well, I didn’t see my mother getting a lot of help and I saw in my friend’s homes that the fathers were helping out a lot more. That was one thing. But another reason was because I guess I was smothered by his attention.I couldn’t think for myself. I spent countless hours sometimes until late into the night, listening to Dad’s theories and beliefs. It took me quite a while to realise that the minute I actually “agreed” with him, I could go to bed. But my stubborn and independent nature didn’t want to just capitulate! So the very thing my sister craved for and appreciated, I simply couldn’t cope with. They do say too much of a good thing… (in case you are wondering how a man who is usually so silent can talk for hours….well it is simple…give him a few drinks to loosen his tongue J )

We had a lot of fun times as a family. A lot of laughter and song. So much song. I loved Dad playing the guitar and singing along with him. And true, his hobbies were sometimes fun as well. I remember when a friend gave us a locomotive. Or I should say gave Gerd a locomotive. But in our family, these things always became family events. We had no rails. But that was to be the least of our problems. Dad quickly built his own rails. And our entire living room became a wonderland of rails and hills and bridges and buildings and we played for hours with this wonderful trainset. Not sure how Mum put up with it all because it put the one room we had to sit in totally out of action.

I am happy for the things that Dad taught me and I know he loved me very much. I am happy that I do know this. And I am sad that not all my brothers and sisters knew how much he loved them – or at least not until later in life. I sometimes think that because I retreated so much and “fumed” so much from Dad’s attention, he sort of retreated and didn’t share as much of himself with the others. And that is a terrible shame. Because eventually as I became an adult myself, I stopped “fuming” and began to understand him better.

I know I often chose to help Dad. Despite it all, I found the things he did much more fun than housework. So when I had a choice, I chose to lie under that car with the oil dripping through my hair instead of in the kitchen up to my elbows in soap suds. My biggest regret when I look at my childhood is that I spent so much time with Dad and appeared to have spent so little time with Mum. I feel like I only got to know my mother properly in recent years.

I wanted to have time to talk with Dad about many things. But most of all I wanted him to know how much I did love him. And I am at peace about this. By the things Dad did say in his last few months I know that he knew how much I loved him and indeed how much we all loved him!  He was rightly proud of his large family. And even up to the last days of his life, he was more concerned for how we would cope with his death than death itself. And most of all he was very worried about leaving Mum behind.

But I know he is at peace about that too. I love you too, Mum. And I hope you never feel alone!