Friday, November 29, 2013

Letter to my Father, who died.

Every Year in November, I share this Letter I wrote to my dad......

Hi Dad,

The last time I said that, I was about 18 - meeting you at grans house after about a 10 years break from not seeing you at all. I loved to say that word daddy, cause it felt like comfort to me and a kind of sense that you and me had a lot in common - you loved animals just like I do and you loved to be outside just like I do. When I was little, I often bumped into you after school, when you said you were out for a walk, but I know that you were out buying alcohol. You used to stop at these so called kiosks to pick up your little bottles of brandy that fitted quite conveniently in your jacket pocket, so nobody would see. But I always knew, I could smell the sweet scent of that stuff and your particular smile you would have on your face, gave you away. When you got up in the morning you usually went out with the dog in order to get your first little bottle to be able to say good morning and at lease face me and mum. You would come back in a high, never drunk but nearly kind of back to normal, the way we missed you and kind of always wanted you back like that.

I think mum only got drunk to be with you - to be closer to you, because otherwise you were distant. I remember once when you told her you would stop and I caught you buying drink at the shop. You stood there with your long skinny legs in a huge jacket, mum got in a charity shop for you for that winter - you stood there and I hid behind a wall and tears were running down my face, because I could not bear it anymore that you were doing it in secret. You stayed sober for 2 weeks. I was never sure to tell mum or not. That is lot for a 9 year old girl.

When mum got extremely depressed with you, she decided to make the move to separate. But before that you have to understand that she tried everything to keep it together. She tried a job cleaning for other people, I went to Saturday flee markets to sell my toys I did not need anymore, in order for us to buy potatoes in the market.

I remember one day mum had so little money, but she managed to buy potatoes and sweet corn. As we came to the counter I was looking at chocolate and she sensed I wanted it. But I was by then too informed and too good of a girl, that I would never dare to ask. She whispered in my ear, she would get me an ice-cream at the parlour on the way home. I smiled and could fell her scared look about life for the future and all. We went out the market and there you stood waiting for us. You asked mum if she had money and mum said several times no, but you did not believe her. You argued with her and I went to the other corner of the square. You took mums last money and left her standing there with her plastic bag and empty look. She looked to the ground and had her own thoughts - plans that would be soon revealed. She came to me and on the way home past the parlour we went without stopping. I did hesitate a little but knew we were not going to stop, because you took her last penny. She cried silently on the way home and I tried to sing her a song while walking but she did not want that. I was to remain silent. I often wanted to just become invisible, because all around me was sad. At that moment I wished for those Saturday nights, where you were both happy drinking and chatting. For my childhood nearly the only really happy family days when you were both drinking making plans on how to make a better future. I enjoyed playing with my dolls by the side and just felt that chatting between you two so comforting. I know that sometimes, way after my bedtime the mumbling voices would become louder and occasionally fights would occur - sometimes you would hit mummy and say the next morning to me that she had fallen or bumped into the door frame. But I need to tell you that I was always awake under my blanket scared to death about what was happening. I would cry myself to sleep and be glad for another typical Saturday to have ended.

But that moment when I went home alone with mum and you to the next pub, I just felt a Saturday would be just right in that moment. I was a kid. I got used to routine even if it was a shitty one. I could rely on it. It made me feel safe in a strange way.

I have a lot of memory of you like we have of most people good and bad ones. You often took me on your shoulders when I could not walk anymore and you always bought me something sweet. You had a talent of making everything feel normal for me. You used to put on your smile your “lets have fun, pet” - that is what you called me all the time. My whole childhood was a disaster, now I can see much clearer as I am a mother myself. The funny thing is there were times when I felt safe with you - safer than with mummy and other days I was so angry with you I used to cry and on those days I would try and persuade mummy to just pack a little bag and take the bikes and just never come back. It was my idea - my plan. I used to keep a little cotton bag in my room with my favourite things as I thought my plan would be launched any time. When I made these suggestions to mum, she was usually sitting with a black eye or some sort of other injury, and these are the only ones I actually know of. I felt strong telling mum what to do. I felt like a grownup cause mums depression and inability to look after me gave me strength to do something. Somehow time just past by and mum told me one day we are going to visit my auntie with the train. What she did not tell me, is that I would never sleep in my little bed again. She betrayed me for not telling me of her plan after I had shared with her my plan. We left you on a morning and never came back. Mum told you on the phone and all the rest was told to me by others. You took it hard but wanted to keep the dog. You made clear you wanted to see me now and then, but you wanted to keep the dog.

On the day we returned to the house to pick up our things with a friend of mums you put on your best clothes and had prepared little sandwiches. The atmosphere was nice and after all the packing and the fact that everybody was thirsty I was sent to the shop with my bike to get 6 bottle of beer. I by accident broke 3 cause the bottle heads came in my front wheel. My bike flipped and when I returned the concern was more about the broken bottles than my skinned knees.

After packing up all the things I was promised to see you the following weekend. All said goodbye and while we drove off, in the radio the song“it’s all over now, baby blue” was playing. There were tears running down mums eyes and in her own way she let out all her pain she had kept inside for all those years. So many tears were flowing and I held her hand and watched the landscape pass by all this at my all so young life.

I never saw you that weekend and not even the one after that.. Years went by till I finally found you and came in contact. I was 18 and determined to tell you what I think of you. I flew to Scotland and was prepared for confrontation. When I got out the car and walked up those stairs and saw you standing in the doorway at Grans house, I was shocked. You had changed into a much older weaker looking man and all my anger and frustration I collected in those past years just turned into sympathy. You managed to make me think you had stopped drinking and somehow “made it”. I saw straight through you and knew that your visits to the village were the same as there were when I was a child.

We separated saying we would meet the following weekend, you wanted to call. I waited but never heard from you again till another 10 years. This time your sister called not you. This time you had a medical condition and you had undergone several operations. Life led you to London and I was left with one phone call with you and I could just hear that even through the phone you put on that smile and tried to act normal. You had to go for your last operation and I kept thinking of you. After the operation I knew you could not talk but I made sure a nurse would tell you that I, your daughter, called to tell you that she loved you. I think I have never heard you say that, dad. Have you ever said “pet, I love you”? I cannot remember, if so then it maybe for not often enough. 2 weeks after your major operation you died in your armchair. It was a sunny Saturday late evening. Funny for you to die on a Saturday the day when you used to be on top of the world - the day of the week we all loved you.

You had made yourself a coffee and returned to the television. You died with a little picture of my little girl in your hand. A picture I had sent you with a letter a letter to somehow find a new beginning in all this mess. It would have been from parent to parent. But I don’t think from father to daughter. That chance was water under the bridge. I am writing these lines to you today, to tell you that as a little girl I thought you were the salt of the earth. I guess I just got a bit too much disappointed. Always waiting for you, always waiting for those little words that would make me feel special. But do you know what? I forgive you, cause I have my own little family now and I experience the love and I give the love I always wanted as a child. I had so much to give as a little girls, you all just did not want it.

I can live it again with my own kids. You could have been part of this but you decided to go your own way like most of the time, and leave the world. The world that seemed to not treat you right and somehow not have a place for you. I forgive you again, cause I cannot be angry and frustrated at you anymore. I have never had the chance to tell you what I really think but time as passed by, my anger has turned into sympathy again. Just like that day when I say you standing at the door. I am letting it go and looking for the love. I have found the love for sure. My kids give me so much and I am sure there is a part of you in this somehow telling me how much you did love me. I even sometimes see that special glint in the eyes of my little boy. Over and over he tells me how much he loves me - could that be a part of you?

I hope you rest in peace and sometimes like me, think of that afternoon when you and me played ball in the park.

I love you…………

Friday, November 22, 2013

Education

Homeschooling mummy

“The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge but imagination.” ~ Albert Einstein

yes, that is what I am a homschooling mummy of four. And I have been doing it since 2005. Back then when we went on holiday and saw families taking breaks during school, I always asked myself - "How do they do it"? and now I am on that side facing all sorts of questions and comments.

The other day my daughter drove into town with a friend and her mother. The friend asked if her mother had ever thought about homeschooling her. The mother said " oh dear, I just could not be as kind and patient as N.J. she sure must have the patience of a saint".

Now that comment got me thinking. Do I have more patience than anybody else? I came to the conclusion that this is a path we have taken and of course at the beginning I wanted to do everything right so I - like any parent - overdid it. I played the teacher.

However, this did not last very long. The kids moslty just wanted me to read to them and sit and have tea. And that is what we still do today. We sit, talk, read, talk again, go for walks and explore things together. Children pursue life, and in doing so, pursue knowledge. They need adults to trust in the inevitability of this very natural process, and to offer what assistance they can.

All our kids read - alot. So, in a way i dont worry too much. Of course even I have my days where I do worry but I have still never regret homeschooling them in the first place. Because the time we spend together is so full of quality and love that I would not want to miss that.
And that is really all you have to do as a parent, just love and trust them.

John Holt once said "There is no difference between living and learning... it is impossible and misleading and harmful to think of them as being separate.”

And now I am off to read to my kids.

Monday, November 11, 2013

Autumn and Friendship

Albert Camus with his children

Albert Camus would be 100 this month 7th of November, if he had not got into that car, to get a lift to the train station. I think he is a man to discover. I would recommend the book "The Stranger". He had wonderful views and was counted as a little over the top for the times back in the day - but today we know his views and points were right.

I want to wish you a nice Monday morning and maybe inspire you to read something from him. You will stumble over many others of that time - and you will see, how exciting it must have been. Have fun.