My dad has always been my hero. From when I was old enough to talk I was a Daddy’s girl. I was always curious and asking him about his time when he was a paratrooper in the second world war. He could remember every battle and it was because of him I found history interesting at school. Dad was also a great listener, and if I were going through my own problems I would always go to him. He just had a way of making me feel better.
There was a picture of him with his red beret on. It was just of the face. I was going to get it painted and gave it to someone in my husband’s family, but it went missing. He used to write diaries too, but they went missing too. I would have loved to publish his writing because then the world would know how proud I was of my dad.
Despite his time in the second world war, he was a gentle giant. I remember fixing a Robin’s wing, and the gentle way he nursed that little bird back to freedom. He would watch a movie and cry at the sad parts.
I was seventeen when he died. He was so brave. A quiet hero, who didn’t complain of the pain he was suffering. There was a rose bush outside the front room window. He loved red roses. It would give him great pleasure to look outside and watch them grow.
It is why red roses are my favourite flower
Now I am a mother (grown up children) I pass on my gift of love to them. It is about listening when they need a confidant to talk to. I would have loved for my dad to have seen them. My son shares, not only his name, but his kindness too. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for family and friends. My daughter is more like my mum, but then that is another story.
Family is important to me, as I would imagine are yours.