Father's Day 2017

Although it’s still less than two years since he died, it would be dishonest of me to say I go around ‘missing’ my father.   It hits me when I see a man that has the cut of his jib.  Or when I’m driving and some random memory pops up.  And always, always when Meath are playing in Croker.  He would have been glued last night, watching their defeat against Kildare.  F’ing and blinding at the TV, than never answered back.   He would have been chuffed that my son’s school report said that he had a ‘great interest in politics’ – in his likeness in so many ways.   Him entertaining my daughter’s dodgy ‘knock-knock jokes.

The real vacuum is the fuss that was around him.  The farmer’s clock that meant that dinner served any later than ten-past-one in the day, was likely to lead to starvation.  No heed either to the fact that my mother may have been down the yard helping my father that morning and so unable to produce an abracadabra dinner.  But my mother knowing his ways, would usually have prepared dinner in advance.

All the fuss too, to cajole him about buying a new suit for a family occasion.  Him insisting that the old suit was ‘grand’ and that he just needed to loosen the belt, my mother and I exchanging glances and saying nothing.   Him looking dapper in his new attire and I wonder what all the commotion was about.

No need now, to hide the hair conditioner in the bathroom, which my father was known to wash his hair in.  My mother, at nothing, asking him to wash his hair again to take the dullness out of it.  ‘Would ya stop woman’, he’d say as he combed his hair impatiently into a side parting.  Never a man for the barber either, he could barely sit still while my mother cut his hair, on a Saturday night as he watched Winning Streak.  Teasing him about his bald patch, which he insisted was the result of being hit by a stone on the head as a child.  My mother laughing, saying that the scar must have grown over time. 

It’s probably no accident that Mr Private, the guy I dated for months was older than me.  Reliable and kind, funny, opinionated.  A father figure of sorts, not that I was looking for that.  Or maybe I was, unknown to myself. 

I’m not one to look for signs of my father’s presence either.  But lately, I have thought of him and asked him, begged him, to send me strength, that just didn’t come.   

Last week, I was in court for something that I will tell you about in my memoirs.  A lonely place to be on my own, having turned down all offers from friends to be there for support, feeling that I should 'do this alone'.   As I gathered myself in the toilet, the dodgiest of Irish county music blaring in through the window from the market stall outside.  And I just knew that he was there.  I laughed - Always on your terms Da, always.

Happy Father’s Day 

Dusting Off

So, my little house was broken into.  Again.  Six months after the last one.   Less damage done this time around, for that I am grateful, if that’s the word.  But it doesn’t really matter what was taken.  It’s the intrusion. 

When I return home, I see the back window wide open and I innocently think that perhaps I had left it open - I hope.  But when I see the children’s money box smashed on the table, my fears are confirmed.  The first time time that I was broken into, I ran around my ransacked house, screaming.  This time, I get spooked, run out and lock myself in my car (which I have thankfully left parked outside my gate) fearing that the intruder is still there and phone the Gardai. 

I think of Mr Private.   Just a few weeks ago, we knew each other’s every move.  In fact, I was supposed to be with him now.   But I can’t contact him.  Too much water under the bridge.  

I phone my mother and text Just Friends, a guy I dated at Christmas and stayed in touch with.   Just Friends and I have made a pact – half joking, but deadly serious - that if neither of us meet anyone by next St Patrick’s Day, that we will get together.   There is nothing that they can do. 

The sympathetic Garda leads me around my house.  Relief this time, that my boy’s bedroom wasn’t wrecked, that all the damage is in my bedroom.   My favourite pearl-drop marcasite earrings, that everyone admires are gone.  Worth nothing to anyone, except me. 

Taken too, is the brand new iPhone 5 that my boy disabled before I got to use it.  I never found the time to unlock it.  Hoping they get no good out of it either.

Waiting for the Gardai to come to take fingerprints is the worst part – trying not to touch anything that the greasy hands have touched.   I can trace where they have been, their presence marked by the uninvited disturbance by their unwelcome hands.  I feel like walking away from this place I call home and never coming back.

Before the Forensics arrive, the children and I take down their ‘Crime Scene’ kit and the friendly Garda confirms that the contents are very similar to ‘the real thing.’  He gives them a demonstration of how to brush for prints and the pair seems pleased – a news item for school next day.  I think it’s called ‘making the best of a bad situation.’  We don’t dwell on the mean-spiritedness of someone who would break children’s money boxes to take their few euro. I cringe at how dusty my house is and think that, had I known that I would have a break-in, I would have made a better effort to clean before I left.

We laugh that our cat, Sparky has taken advantage of the break-in, climbing in through the gaping window and taking residence in my bedroom.  He has pooed on the duvet.  I kid you not.  I decide that I will treat myself to new bed linen.

The school tour the following day is a welcome distraction for us all.  I get a house alarm installed – shutting the gate when the horse has bolted.  There is great excitement too, examining the monitors and setting and un-setting the alarm.  My daughter wonders if a fairy visits, or if her 'Sylvanian Family' animals move around the house when we aren't there, will they set off the sensors. I reassure her that the @ePhoneWatch installer told me that they were too small for that to happen.

The memory on my ancient iPhone 4 is at capacity.  I need to delete something to create space.  I scroll through the hundred of messages between myself and Mr Private and decide that it’s time to press ‘delete.’   I wipe the grey finger print dust from the windows and around the house.  And move on.

... And in a Flash, He Was Gone ...

Just as I was losing hope of finding a new home for my beloved dog Hudson, I was presented with an offer that was almost too good to be true.

'Would he sleep on my bed?'

'Would he what', I smile.

'Does he like car journeys?'

'Almost as much as he likes sleeping on beds'.

That night, Hudson goes on a 'sleepover' as a trial run and that was that.  My sweet, gentle giant is gone.

I tell the children that '…it's for the best …', but they are not one bit happy.  There's floods of tears.  I explain, again and again, that we have to think of what’s best for the dog.  I remind them of the endless hours the poor mutt has spent in the last year waiting for us to come home, only to turn on our heels to go out again.

‘ … I loved him too, you know…’

As I clear out his basket, wipe his paw prints and sweep his hair from the floor, I’m relieved that I’ve now one less responsibility, one that had become a burden. 

At the same time, I’ve a heavy heart, knowing that the acts of cleaning and gathering are removing his memory from the house.  

And then myself and Mr Private call it a day.

Mr P becomes Mr Past Tense, just like that.

Those words again

‘ …it’s for the best… ’

and worse again,

‘ …it wasn’t meant to be.. .’    

For the second time in days, I don’t quite believe my own words.