Last Sunday was Father’s Day. It got me thinking about my own father. I think of him every day. It is remarkable how something he said, or something he did, always finds its way into my consciousness – small memories pushing through the soil of everyday life like flowers in bloom.
Despite having only a primary education, he possessed a wisdom that could never be learned in a classroom. I miss him for his perspective and for the clear, practical advice he offered whenever life became complicated. He was an ideas man, forever finding solutions where others saw only problems.
I miss him for his optimism. I cannot recall a single occasion when he took a pessimistic view of things. When I was younger, I sometimes found that frustrating. Faced with challenges, I wanted someone to wallow alongside me. It is only now that I understand what he was really offering. His optimism nurtured hope, and hope is among the most precious gifts we can give one another.
I miss his humour too. I do not think I ever had a conversation with him without smiling inwardly or laughing aloud. He was a gifted storyteller, and we would often ask him to tell certain stories again and again, delighting in the familiar voices, gestures, and expressions he used to bring them to life. He made me laugh, and laughter, in its own way, is a form of healing.
He was a painter by trade, and I can still picture myself sitting beside him in the garage, working on my first oil painting. His hands seemed capable of anything. He could French polish furniture to a mirror-like finish or grain a door with the skill of a true craftsman. There was pride in his work, and there was artistry too.
One memory returns often. I was teaching in Castleblayney and had gone down to Woods’ shop for a sandwich. Looking up the street, I noticed a man in overalls perched on a ladder, painting the sign above a pub. It was my father. The wind was tugging at the ladder, and I was uneasy watching him work at such a height.
I walked over and asked why he had not waited until Saturday when I could help him or at least until I had finished work for the day.
From our conversation, I realised that because I was educated, because I was a teacher, he somehow believed that dirty clothes and overalls were no longer part of my world. Looking back, I smile at the memory of taking that afternoon off school to hold his ladder. Education was never a barrier between us in my eyes, but perhaps he saw things differently.
He loved animals. Donkeys, horses, goats, hens, and ducks populated our back garden and filled it with life. He taught my daughter how to gently pet a hen. He lifted my son into his arms and showed him the birds as they sang their hearts out. His affection for animals reflected something essential about him – a tenderness that often revealed itself in quiet ways.
He was also a fixer. Broken toys, bicycles, cars, pieces of furniture – nothing was beyond repair if my father turned his attention to it. He restored antiques to their former glory and filled our home with beautiful old clocks whose ticking and chiming became the soundtrack of my childhood.
I would love to show him my own collection now. Strangely, I had little interest in clocks when he was alive. Perhaps collecting them today is my way of keeping him close, of hearing echoes of his presence as the years move on. Every ticking clock seems to whisper a memory.
My father always wanted the best for others, often more than he wanted for himself. He inspected the car before I bought it. He walked the site before the auctioneer received his cheque. Sometimes I would return home from work to find bags of potatoes, carrots, or coal leaning against the back door.
“The very best,” he would say when I rang to thank him.
He was loyal, principled, generous, and kind. My mother was never quite the same after he left us. None of us were, if truth be told.
We lost a remarkable man – a man who loved Carrickmacross and its people; a man who knew where he belonged and who asked for little more from life than to be surrounded by those he loved.
I still light candles for him and for my mother in churches and cathedrals. The flames flicker briefly, but their memory does not. It remains steady and enduring, illuminating the years that have passed and reminding me that love, once given, is never truly lost.
Did you get your ticket?
Tickets for new show Wake Up! You’re Here! are on sale now and selling very well! This is a chance for the general public to hear my messages about living life fully despite challenges. The show will combine psychology, poetry, storytelling, and humour. Tickets are available now.
Tickets for the Iontas Theatre, Castleblayney on September 5th at 8pm are on sale here
Tickets for the Hawk’s Well, Sligo on September 10th 8pm on sale here
