Dad turns 70 today. We’re headed out for dinner to celebrate
with him and last week Mum sprung on me invited me, during a
conversation to propose a toast. This of course led to some thinking about
exactly what it is that I would say.
I considered keeping it short and simple, “Here’s to you,
you old bastard,” but that probably doesn’t quite cut it. Not to mention the
fact that you’re probably thinking that referring to my dad as a bastard is a
bit harsh. However, I do try to work with the facts. IT has been stated and not
by me, that upon the death of my grandmother, certain records were found that
suggest that the date her wedding to my Grandfather might not quite have been
as removed from the birth date of my father as one would expect. The fact that
this likely had something to do with my Grandfather heading North to war, well
that’s speculation and we can only work with facts.
So what else should I say about my Dad? For as long as I’ve
known him, he’s been helping out. It seems to be in his DNA. When I was in
school and took up soccer (much to his horror as an avid AFL footballer) which
Dad knew about as much as ‘the ball is the wrong shape and you’re not allowed
to mark* it,’ we didn’t have a coach. So Dad stepped in as team manager. He was
on the Primary School Sports Committee, he was at working bees and as I got
older he seemed to always be involved somewhere. Even now he’s wound up as
president of the tennis club and helps out at the Church.
Dad has always seemed to be one of those blokes who’d have a
go. Clearly the money wasn’t there to pay for other people to do things for
him, so it was painting the house or servicing a car or erecting a garage or
just maybe making picket gates fly down the drive way, but it was always
something. Rare are the times that I can think of that Dad would spend his time
sitting down and watching the telly.
I have great memories of going to the football with Dad to
watch the beloved Tigers, year in year out, almost making the grade, but not quite
coming through with the goods in the final. I especially remember the two
special years when we actually went to see them actually win Grand Finals.
Those were good times. Dad has always been passionate about his sport, possibly
to a fault at times. After all, who really manages to get a net ball game
stopped until they have been removed from the spectating area? I mean, netball,
really? And who get’s so involved in their son’s football that they find
themselves barracking from 10 yards inside the boundary line? Not me, but I
could give you a clue.
Dad has made choices throughout his life that have put
family first. They’re not always apparent when you’re a kid, but over the years
bits and pieces filter through and come up in conversation – decisions not to
move to Sydney, not taking up an opportunity to move to PNG later in his career
(and during some critical school years for us kids).
All in all, we’ve been bloody well looked after as a family.
That’s not to say Dad’s perfect. No one is, but he’s made a bloody good fist of
the hand that he’s been dealt and I for one am eminently proud to call him Dad.
So it will be a pleasure to toast him tonight and here and now I’d just like to
say thanks and Happy Birthday Dad.
*that would be catch it for you overseas people unfamiliar
with the game
