Thanks to the power of Google, I recently stumbled across a small reference to my father in the Newcastle Herald from 1950.
My father passed away when I was eight years old of a heart attack (myocardial infarction).
My memories of my father are sketchy at best, which always bothered me, even though I have since learned that this is not an uncommon occurrence.
However, I remember the day he died quite clearly. I would like to save that story for another time.
The funny thing is now that I have little boys of my own, I am going through a renaissance of thinking about my Dad.
Born from boilermaker stock, I mysteriously couldn’t hang a shelf to save my life. However, I am a near genetic clone of my father, and my first born son appears to be a clone of me.
And more and more I find myself saying things that are straight from the mouth of my father. I even slip into a Pommie accent.
As Mr Burns’ monkey once typed: It is the best of times, it is the blurst of times.
Anyway, I miss you Dad.