Things My Father Told Me

Possibly the last post on this subject. Some time after Senior kissed this mortal coil farewell, I was on a CPX on West Freugh. Long days. Lots of senior officers testing operational effectiveness. You know the score. I bailed out at the end of a long shift and walked off the runway to clear my head. After a few hundred metres I became aware of somebody walking in tandem with me.
I looked sideways and saw Senior there. Disreputable Arran sweater, baggy cords, even more dodgy suede boots. This wasn’t possible. He had been dead for several months and yet I knew he was there. For me. So we strolled along the runway and I told him about his grandson and my life. He told me of what he felt of me, my brother, his life and all the while I knew that if I looked directly at him, he would vanish.
We are reached the end of the runway and I recall saying “I’ve got to go back now” and Senior saying “I know” and, for the first time in my life, telling me that he loved me. When I turned, he was gone. I know, I was tired, he was recently deceased, I missed h old bugger and yet, for those few moments, we reached closer understanding of each other and what is currently called closure. Not many folk have that blessing. I’m the lucky one.
 
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Possibly the last post on this subject. Some time after Senior kissed this mortal coil farewell, I was on a CPX on West Freugh. Long days. Lots of senior officers testing operational effectiveness. You know the score. I bailed out at the end of a long shift and walked off the runway to clear my head. After a few hundred metres I became aware of somebody walking in tandem with me.
I looked sideways and saw Senior there. Disreputable Arran sweater, baggy cords, even more doggy shade boots. This wasn’t possible. He had been dead for several months and yet I knew he was there. For me. So we strolled along the runway and I told him about his grandson and my life. He told me of what he felt of me, my brother, his life and all the while I knew that if I looked directly at him, he would vanish.
We are reached the end of the runway and I recall saying “I’ve got to go back now” and Senior saying “I know” and, for the first time in my life, telling me that he loved me. When I turned, he was gone. I know, I was tired, he was recently deceased, I missed h old bugger and yet, for those few moments, we reached closer understanding of each other and what is currently called closure. Not many folk have that blessing. I’m the lucky one.
I would give you a hundred 'likes' for that touching reminiscence Rick. I had a similar experience not long after my father died... same generation as yours, a highly decorated old war horse, and a wonderful, if taciturn, man.
 
Possibly the last post on this subject. Some time after Senior kissed this mortal coil farewell, I was on a CPX on West Freugh. Long days. Lots of senior officers testing operational effectiveness. You know the score. I bailed out at the end of a long shift and walked off the runway to clear my head. After a few hundred metres I became aware of somebody walking in tandem with me.
I looked sideways and saw Senior there. Disreputable Arran sweater, baggy cords, even more doggy shade boots. This wasn’t possible. He had been dead for several months and yet I knew he was there. For me. So we strolled along the runway and I told him about his grandson and my life. He told me of what he felt of me, my brother, his life and all the while I knew that if I looked directly at him, he would vanish.
We are reached the end of the runway and I recall saying “I’ve got to go back now” and Senior saying “I know” and, for the first time in my life, telling me that he loved me. When I turned, he was gone. I know, I was tired, he was recently deceased, I missed h old bugger and yet, for those few moments, we reached closer understanding of each other and what is currently called closure. Not many folk have that blessing. I’m the lucky one.
Brilliant dit mucker, it suddenly got all dusty over me Brekkie. ;)
 
I thought I’d posted the last offering on my old fellah. Wrong. My younger brother dropped in recently and we chatted about Senior. The wake was held at Senior’s local and the landlord footed the bill(!). My Bruv said that the landlord had said “I never saw your father drunk. But there again, I never saw him sober.” Oh how we laughed. But in the next breath, he went on to tell my brother how he had regaled all present about what I, and to a degree my Bruv, had done. (Persec out of the window.....). We all go through life never really knowing how others see us. In my case, my soldiers, my kids, even my wives ( don’t go there) but in this case the regard Senior held for me, and which I had not the slightest idea. One more example, if example were needed, that his gneration didn’t let emotions clog up the daily grind.
 
My dad was a NS REME bod in the 50's and never really spun many dits, but one I do recall resonated some years later.

One thing that kept them going was the scran. Being born on the mid-thirties in Lambeth, S London he spent his first decade dodging Luftwaffe bombs and not much on the table. Being in the city meant no chance of rabbits, home grown veg or other treats to keep them going. So one thing he hated was wasting food, and he made no secret of it.

So one breakfast at Bulford where he was based, he popped up fro the table to get a brew and when he came back, some twat had put salt all over his porridge for a laugh (no jock anecdotes thanks). When he tasted it, he went berserk and demanded to know who it was. As his anger grew, so did the laughs and eventually when the bloke owned up, dad stuck the bowl right into his face and starting filling him in, shouting 'Don't ever mess about with my food, or anyone else's again'. He didn't get any jankers, but was made to clear the mess up. No one did it again.

I get what he meant as it riles more than ever than people pissing about with is another blokes food, especially on tour or exercise
 
My dad was a NS REME bod in the 50's and never really spun many dits, but one I do recall resonated some years later.

One thing that kept them going was the scran. Being born on the mid-thirties in Lambeth, S London he spent his first decade dodging Luftwaffe bombs and not much on the table. Being in the city meant no chance of rabbits, home grown veg or other treats to keep them going. So one thing he hated was wasting food, and he made no secret of it.

So one breakfast at Bulford where he was based, he popped up fro the table to get a brew and when he came back, some twat had put salt all over his porridge for a laugh (no jock anecdotes thanks). When he tasted it, he went berserk and demanded to know who it was. As his anger grew, so did the laughs and eventually when the bloke owned up, dad stuck the bowl right into his face and starting filling him in, shouting 'Don't ever mess about with my food, or anyone else's again'. He didn't get any jankers, but was made to clear the mess up. No one did it again.

I get what he meant as it riles more than ever than people pissing about with is another blokes food, especially on tour or exercise
My old man was same era and bought up in roughly the same area albeit north of the river and further east. ‘Never mess with another man’s food’ he used to tell us kids growing up and one of the few things he was quite serious about and something that is now ingrained in me....and now my kids!
 
My dad was a NS REME bod in the 50's and never really spun many dits, but one I do recall resonated some years later.

One thing that kept them going was the scran. Being born on the mid-thirties in Lambeth, S London he spent his first decade dodging Luftwaffe bombs and not much on the table. Being in the city meant no chance of rabbits, home grown veg or other treats to keep them going. So one thing he hated was wasting food, and he made no secret of it.

So one breakfast at Bulford where he was based, he popped up fro the table to get a brew and when he came back, some twat had put salt all over his porridge for a laugh (no jock anecdotes thanks). When he tasted it, he went berserk and demanded to know who it was. As his anger grew, so did the laughs and eventually when the bloke owned up, dad stuck the bowl right into his face and starting filling him in, shouting 'Don't ever mess about with my food, or anyone else's again'. He didn't get any jankers, but was made to clear the mess up. No one did it again.

I get what he meant as it riles more than ever than people pissing about with is another blokes food, especially on tour or exercise
My Mum and Dad very much the same when it came to food, both Ilford Dad stayed in Ilford during WW2. Mum evacuated to the Welsh coalfields for 18 mths.
They both detested food waste and would go apeshit if they saw people wasting food.
 
At my wedding (first and only) my intended was running ‘fashionably’ late, my Dad turned to me and said “ look Son don’t let her make a fool of you, leave now” I stayed and here we are.

Bugger.
 
He never said too much.
Carry that.
Get the beers in.
One stuck in my mind. If you're daft enough to get married, and have to wash a kid, put it in the water, if it turns pink and screams, it's too hot for your elbow.
I know where my warped view of life comes from.
 
He never said too much.
Carry that.
Get the beers in.
One stuck in my mind. If you're daft enough to get married, and have to wash a kid, put it in the water, if it turns pink and screams, it's too hot for your elbow.
I know where my warped view of life comes from.
Oooh! Poached Child... Be nice with a few chips, baked beans, couple fried eggs.... yummy
 

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