Having served in the Second World War, he put great value on his principles of life. Certain things came first, and I think family would have been in that spot, closely followed by obedience to duty. My guess is that he was ISTJ where everything and everyone had a place. He did not suffer fools gladly, and seemed to have little time for women in a leadership role, unless they were Maori. His love of the Maori history and people was paramount, although he had no time with the radicals, either Maori or Pakeha. He collected artifacts, either at auction, or by fossicking around the coastal pa sites. When I was young, I remember his obsession with Moa eggshell scraps which he planned to put together if possible, but meanwhile kept in matchboxes. Both my parents smoked at that time and Mum was forever picking up a matchbox, opening it upside down, only to find a scattering of egg shells at her feet. I can hear her now.
Both before and after WWII, Dad was a journalist. As well as his parliamentary job, he wrote freelance and contributed to journals and newspapers. His emphasis on the well-written and well-spoken word bordered on fanatical so that it was almost pointless having a conversation with him as he would be waiting to pounce on a mis-pronounced word, or grammatical mistake. He adored it once television arrived as he had a non-stop field-day with anyone who opened his or her mouth. He hated women drivers, yet he was bound to having Mum as our only driver because he could not get a license to drive due to diplopia, or 'double vision' acquired during the War. Used to tell us he could see two of Mum and always chose the prettier.
The car we had was a 1957 Ford Anglia, cream, which was brought back from the UK where he and Mum had been that year. This was the year that my sister and I were literally farmed off to an aunt and uncle's farm, as it was not done to take children with you in those days. A scholarship supported them both while they were there, and Dad wrote copious copy which he sent back home. They were especially proud of that Anglia, which Mum named "Clementine". Driving with Dad meant sitting pretty much in silence, depending on his mood, while he over-rode Mum's driving decisions with a "PASS HIM" command issued from his passenger side of the seat, and issued with utter distain for the obligatory minimum passing distance required. He loathed drivers who would pass us, of course, and if they dared to cut in, he would reward them with a curse and demand that Mum "TOOT HIM", often leaning over to pre-empt the order. I'm quite sure he would have liked to get behind the wheel, but as he couldn't, he was going to make sure Mum didn't let the side down.
Dad did not seem a happy person, but he was content with his own company and mostly content with his family of women, provided they were seen, not heard. We all developed extra-sensitive 'mood assessment' antennae so that we could be on red-alert if necessary, and tiptoe around the father. We kids never knew what upset him, and quite possibly, Mum didn't either, but we knew what to say, when to say it, and when to remain completely silent. He was always like this, and some of my earliest memories were his interminable silences. However, when he was younger, I like to think he was different, happier, somehow. I like to think that having a family meant he was more grounded, in spite of the War, in spite of leaving someone he loved behind in the UK. I like to think that until we grew up and had minds of our own (God forbid), that he was more centered, relaxed, and that for a few years the concept of fighting for one's country actually meant something. Happy 100th birthday, Dad. Would you like to be here now? I wonder.
No comments:
Post a Comment