Tag Archives: fathers

Plum

16 Jul

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Seen through the eyes of a child kites are wishes on a string. This picture made me think about how insignificant I have seemed. I will be 60 soon and it is time to take stock.

“We are nothing but a fart in eternity” my mother used to say.

Just this weekend my neice, Wren (above) and nephew, Cole played host, supported by their parents Anna and Nathan Littlewood and Nanna, Mollie Littlewood. They had arranged a family get together in their new home near Bristol.

As a result, I enjoyed one of my best extra birthday parties ever.

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We enjoyed a tasty barbecue made by The Dad (Nathan), lovely food and drink provided by The Mum (Anna), followed by pass the parcel and dancing statues, kite flying, colouring in and driving Cole and Wren around in Bertha (the Hilux) plus lots of easy chats, swapping news, sharing views.

Here Aunty Clare is baking cakes with Wren and Cole.

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It got me thinking about my father, David Stuart Littlewood, the founding father of our little clan, his singular achievements and his legacy.

A couple of years ago I asked him what he wanted for his birthday and he said,

“To wake up son”. Sadly he will not be waking up any more.

Both my parents have passed away now and it reminds me of what my wife said when both her parents passed in the same year:

“I’m an orphan now!”. I laughed, insensitively, and said “Don’t be ridiculous!”

I’m not laughing now. Sorry, Clare.

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In 2000 after suffering years of crippling, cyclical depression I almost succeeded in throwing in the towel, predeceasing my parents.

Six months later, after regular visits to a psychiatrist and copious intake of Lophepramine (a powerful tricyclic antidepressant) I was alive, though I could barely function.

My father said “I’d like you to paint me a picture, for Christmas son”.

The picture above is the result. Nathan returned it to me yesterday. I called it ‘Bonsai replanted’ and copied a Haiku by Basho on the reverse:

Even a Black Bull

Will sing a song of Spring

Under this flowering Plum Tree

In my picture the moon is waning, and one can’t be sure whether the tree is alive or not. One of the hills looks like a tidal wave is rolling in. The only redeeming feature is that Orion is prominently represented in white chalk dots (I always think of Dad when I see Orion, The Hunter). Dad kept it alongside a portrait of The Golden Gate Bridge by Simon, our youngest brother. I understand it had a spell in Australia with Nathan and his family.

I never realised until I grew up how much I was loved.

 

We, under Orion

Sing and dance and Love

So many flowering Plums

 

For my Family

x HL 16.07.2018

 

 

Daughters

24 May

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This is my daughter, Polly. Once a year we try to get together and do something neither of us has done before and meet on unbroken ground. We discovered that this was a marvellous way to share a bit of time together without the tedious dynamics of parent and child, because in the situations we choose we are both kids again. Sure, I am the dad and may be called upon to give what P calls ‘dadly’ advice – a delicate technique involving listening carefully (not my strong suit) and delivering wisdom (saying the right thing), which is bloody tricky. Yes, P is the daughter, but at 30 years of age is an experienced and successful business woman in her own right, so she provides the good humour.

I have come to the conclusion that, for me the most attractive quality in daughters is their ability to make us love and laugh.

This one is an absolute genius at it:

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Here is my wife, Clare, taking the piss out of me collecting a hazel rod, which I had cut to make a walking sticks …. “I’m Gandalf!”

Her wit literally saved my life 13 years ago at a time when I was experiencing depression – in a park in Barcelona this acutely shy woman perfumed her ‘Special Ballet’ – just for me – to bring me out from a very dark place. It worked then, I am a sucker for physical comedy, and it works now.

She is of course a daughter too, the youngest of four children from a working class Welsh family, brought up in an atmosphere which promoted earning a decent wage above all else (from the age of 14 in Clare’s case) and limited ambition. Barren ground for a fierce intellect.

Clare’s favourite ‘daughter’ is her niece Percie:

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Percie lives in California, here she is explaining to me that “It’s not SUMS Uncle Henk, it’s MATH” ….and making me laugh, a fine quality. Her other Aunt, Anna is no longer with us. I commemorated Anna in the blog ‘In Memoriam’. Here she is chatting up a handsome friend, using her wit to his advantage.

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This daughter burned very brightly and she is still greatly loved.

I’m going to give my daughter away in August, when she gets married. A very odd concept, since she was never really mine to give, but I will try to do it with the same dignity as Fred seen here with his daughter, Whitney (Percie’s mum) to my youngest brother Simon.

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Whitney was a stunningly beautiful bride on the day, but Fred was the class act. He managed, during his speech, to argue that because his family was descended from the Pilgrim Fathers, and had left Plymouth all those years ago, that Simon (who grew up in Devon) was actually marrying the girl next door. In this way he cemented the bond between two families in a laid back, unruffled way and allowed his daughter to be her lovely self.

If I can emulate this in August I will have honoured my daughter. For she, and all the daughters I have known give us life.