Another birthday for my Dad has rolled round: he would have been 91 today, instead he died 06 March 2003 aged 81. An old man with a young mind. He enthralled me as a child with his tales, and in turn did the same with my kids. A man who never really grew up, my Dad had the knack of drawing children to him, rather like the Pied Piper of Hamlyn, but with fun and mischief as his intent, rather than malice.
So it's little wonder that all my children learnt how to make catapults, had picnics on stepladders in the garden, knew how to roll cigarettes in a machine (although he stopped smoking soon after Kieron was born) and would dunk their Grandad's head in bowls of rice pudding!
Kieron followed his Grandad much like a puppy, calling 'Gandad, Gandad' all the time. Learning how to use a hand drill, tighten the nuts on his mini motorbike and was introduced to tinned steak. My Dad's lop-sided gait, doing his version of a run as he chased Kieron around the garden to the sound of excited squeals and when Jade and Callum were younger, doing the same. Although then it was to the additional sound of my Mum trying not to laugh as she shouted 'Harry, you'll get her/him over-excited'.
Overnight stays, with my Dad in my old bedroom, Kieron on a camp bed beside him, as my Mum's Alzheimer's Disease prevented her from looking after her youngest grandchild. Midnight snacks and talks. Morning hugs. A wonderful man to whom his grandchildren were his world and adored by all 3 of them.
I miss my Dad, I miss my son more.
