I had myself quite the cathartic moment this week.
It came to me with the news that T-Bag is off to Canada to be with his good looking missus which is a far better excuse than the one he tried to use in ’68 when trying to dodge the draft for Nam. Back then he wanted to be a Mountie, now he’s just off for some mounting.
It reminded me that my long last father is in Canada somewhere and that I’ve hardly ever mentioned him to you lot. My mother on the other hand, she of the nut bar variety, gets load of mentions on account of her being a silly bitch and because I just couldn’t make up some of the shit she’s come up with.
Like the time she painted the kitchen of our house GREEN. Not just green mind you, but that bright almost fluorescent shade which is always used to demonstrate nuclear waste green. She also renovated the place. It was a state house. Years later my Grandfather bought her a house and to prove the green kitchen was no fluke, she painted the entire concrete floor battleship grey. Now Granddad had been in the Navy but even he struggled to figure that one out.
My father skipped the country when I was about 10 for reasons I’m not exactly sure. I’d like to think that it was because he tried and failed to get custody of me but it’s probably something much less romantic i.e. he’s a douche.
I still remember with some clarity the actual custody hearing itself. It took place in some relic of a town hall time building where the floors were so shiny I could see right up the dress shorts my mother had made me wear. Dress shorts. Now there’s an oxymoron if ever there was one. No one wearing shorts is doing so to dress up.
Both paternal and maternal sides of the family were there that day and I was ushered between the two of them as they met with those making the decision. It was quite the intimidating process for a boy my age and I was fair bricking it the whole time. I was asked twice who I wanted to live with and when in the room with my mother I said her and when with my father I said him. Let’s be honest, had Adolf Hitler been there I would’ve given him my vote too.
And speaking of which – have you heard of Godwins Law? It’s brilliant. He theorises that every chat stream / online discussion / forum will eventually lead to someone making a comparison, usually quite outrageously and incorrectly, to Nazi Germany. He’s fucken right too. I do it all the time.
Anyhoo, Father didn’t get custody of me, obviously and did a runner not long after. He was a runner actually, well into his marathons and shit and it’s that which has enabled me to track him across the years over a little thing called the Internet.
All connection to my father pretty much died when my Grandfather on his side of the family did about 15 years ago. Unfortunately he ended up with Alzheimer’s and the end, like so often for sufferers, was a blessing. Before that he had remarried a strictly Christian lady who disliked cursing and burping. Something I found out the hard way.
But then he’d never been the same since my grandmother and his childhood sweetheart had died some 10 years before that. I remember the day because of the way my step father, a man of extraordinary tact broke the news to me after getting of the phone: “That was your dick of a father. Your grandmother is dead. Don’t cry about it”.
The final chapter in this story of happy families starts with Facebook which my my uncle used to contact me and eventually fill me in on my father’s actual story. Turns out he married some world famous psychologist who has forbidden him all contact with NZ and his family. Ha. 25 years ago he shot the gap to escape an over bearing control freak (my mother) only to run into the arms of another. Fate it would seem is not without a sense of irony.
Oh and he’s not actually in Canada anymore, so don’t bother asking after him Timmo.
It came to me with the news that T-Bag is off to Canada to be with his good looking missus which is a far better excuse than the one he tried to use in ’68 when trying to dodge the draft for Nam. Back then he wanted to be a Mountie, now he’s just off for some mounting.
It reminded me that my long last father is in Canada somewhere and that I’ve hardly ever mentioned him to you lot. My mother on the other hand, she of the nut bar variety, gets load of mentions on account of her being a silly bitch and because I just couldn’t make up some of the shit she’s come up with.
Like the time she painted the kitchen of our house GREEN. Not just green mind you, but that bright almost fluorescent shade which is always used to demonstrate nuclear waste green. She also renovated the place. It was a state house. Years later my Grandfather bought her a house and to prove the green kitchen was no fluke, she painted the entire concrete floor battleship grey. Now Granddad had been in the Navy but even he struggled to figure that one out.
My father skipped the country when I was about 10 for reasons I’m not exactly sure. I’d like to think that it was because he tried and failed to get custody of me but it’s probably something much less romantic i.e. he’s a douche.
I still remember with some clarity the actual custody hearing itself. It took place in some relic of a town hall time building where the floors were so shiny I could see right up the dress shorts my mother had made me wear. Dress shorts. Now there’s an oxymoron if ever there was one. No one wearing shorts is doing so to dress up.
Both paternal and maternal sides of the family were there that day and I was ushered between the two of them as they met with those making the decision. It was quite the intimidating process for a boy my age and I was fair bricking it the whole time. I was asked twice who I wanted to live with and when in the room with my mother I said her and when with my father I said him. Let’s be honest, had Adolf Hitler been there I would’ve given him my vote too.
And speaking of which – have you heard of Godwins Law? It’s brilliant. He theorises that every chat stream / online discussion / forum will eventually lead to someone making a comparison, usually quite outrageously and incorrectly, to Nazi Germany. He’s fucken right too. I do it all the time.
Anyhoo, Father didn’t get custody of me, obviously and did a runner not long after. He was a runner actually, well into his marathons and shit and it’s that which has enabled me to track him across the years over a little thing called the Internet.
All connection to my father pretty much died when my Grandfather on his side of the family did about 15 years ago. Unfortunately he ended up with Alzheimer’s and the end, like so often for sufferers, was a blessing. Before that he had remarried a strictly Christian lady who disliked cursing and burping. Something I found out the hard way.
But then he’d never been the same since my grandmother and his childhood sweetheart had died some 10 years before that. I remember the day because of the way my step father, a man of extraordinary tact broke the news to me after getting of the phone: “That was your dick of a father. Your grandmother is dead. Don’t cry about it”.
The final chapter in this story of happy families starts with Facebook which my my uncle used to contact me and eventually fill me in on my father’s actual story. Turns out he married some world famous psychologist who has forbidden him all contact with NZ and his family. Ha. 25 years ago he shot the gap to escape an over bearing control freak (my mother) only to run into the arms of another. Fate it would seem is not without a sense of irony.
Oh and he’s not actually in Canada anymore, so don’t bother asking after him Timmo.
My Father and his dress shorts, last seen in Hawaii (true story).
No comments:
Post a Comment