A Before-Father's-Day Post (otherwise titled: My Dad makes me wanna jump off roofs)

My dad is 90 years old.

He spends all day watching cooking shows and CNN on Astro, and sometimes napping on the couch. He can still hobble around, speaks when he wants to, and eats little. I am trying to recall my best memories of dad when he was healthier, stronger, and when he could still do things with and for us.

He worked as a Division One officer at a government office. So it was pretty routine for him to come home at a fairly regular time. Which strangely enough, was the highpoint of my day. I say strangely because dad has never been the kind that is lovey-dovey, showing any kind of physical acts of love...no hugs, no kisses, no words of endearment. Yet how is it I never felt like I lacked in any way?

One day I was up on the roof (yes, on the roof) at the back of our very large government bungalow, with my brothers and a neighbour-boy. Our age-range might have been maybe 7 -11 years old. The guys were coaxing me to jump off the ledge, on a lower part of the roof. It's a guy thing (so what was I doing there). All of them had already jumped before me, and were standing on the grass below me. "It's ok...jump! Nothing, wan! Can, wan!"

I was afraid to.

Until I heard my dad's car rounding the corner in front. Dad was home!! I was so excited, I immediately jumped. (And found I didn't die after all.) Yep, my dad makes me wanna jump off roofs.

Dad coming home was the highpoint of my day. Sometimes, he would buy me (the youngest daughter, there are 3 boys and 3 girls in our family) little things. I clearly remember an itsy bitsy, rectangular red coin purse with a golden twist knob at the top, that he probably bought from a pedlar who might have come round his office. He probably bought stuff for my brothers and sisters, too but it's hard enough trying to recall my memories here, y'know?

And almost every Sunday after church, he'd let us 3 girls persuade him to take us to what we called the "Soak Shop" to buy all those pickled fruit that were sold in humongous, glass
jars...mango and papaya slices, and bright-red preserved fruit that would stain our lips and tongue. It's a girl thing. And dad understood.







I'll always cherish that he made time for us to take the whole family, almost every year, to Port Dickson. As a high-ranking officer, he could rent a government bungalow by the beach, and together with a whole bunch of cousins and their parents, we'd have the most wonderful 3 or 4 days, chasing after a zillion look!-over-there! here-got-more-here-got-more hermit crabs, floating in it's-my-turn-no, it's-my turn! rubber inner-tubes of tyres, browning ourselves in the morning-afternoon-evening sun (who'd ever heard of skin cancer back then in Jurassic Park times?), stretching our swimsuit straps aside to compare and oooh-and-aaah about who got the most sunburnt, and rubbing Hazeline Snow on ouch-yikes-oooh peeling noses and shoulders and backs and getting "TOLD you to come out of the water earlier on, right? serves-you-right" from our mothers. Honestly, mothers can be collectively sympathetic at times.

My dad in his younger days was always the life of the party. There'd always be loud, singing um.."performances" when dad was at family gatherings. If you're thinking "Somewhere over the rainbow"...forget it. Some of the songs bordered on needing censorship but a number were just plain nonsense

(to the tune of Auld Lang Syne)

We're here because, we're here because, we're here, because WE'RE HERE!
We're here because, we're here because, we're here, because we're HERE....

which was repeated til forever and ever. Amen.


These days you read of dads who kick and stomp their toddler to death. Dads who rape their teenager, repeatedly for several years. Dads who imprison their children in a dungeon of sorts to use, as and how they please. Dads high on drugs, who cut off the head of their child's kitten and stuff it into their mouth to shut them up.

Yep, there are some really evil dads out there.

So with all that, can I look at my dad's flaws, mistakes, weaknesses and bad decisions and hold them against him? Wouldn't that be tunnel vision of some sort?

What do you give a dad who is ninety years old for Father's Day? He's in his pyjamas all day and nearly never goes out so it can't be an item of clothing. He only eats porridge so it can't be a treat to a restaurant nor food of any kind cos nothing appeals to him. Not a book cos he stopped reading a long time ago. Not cash cos what would he do with it? Certainly not lovey-dovey hugs or kisses.

I think the least I can do on Father's Day is tell him I'm counting my blessings. Maybe tell him I wouldn't have any other dad if I could choose. Heck, maybe read him this blog page.

And pray with him. (I've yet to meet anyone who did not benefit from prayer)

And then I'd sing him some nonsense songs.

We're here because, we're here because, we're here, because WE'RE HERE!
We're here because, we're here because, we're here, because we're HERE....



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