MY DAD WAS A FARMER

My Dad was a farmer.  He got up early and he worked hard.  I remember him carrying huge sacks of corn on his back up steep and narrow treaded steps.  I remember him tending at the birth of calves and lambs and always knowing what had to be done.  He could fix tractors … more often than not without stopping the engine.  Fences he built stayed built and nothing was done by halves.  I learned a lot from my dad.

My Dad would never fold under questioning.  He was a product of his generation and upbringing and had learned as a child to operate under the Farmers’ strict code of secrecy.  As a young boy he was entrusted one morning into the care of a neighbour.  That neighbour, frustrated by protracted but ultimately vain attempts to elicit even low-grade security information, is believed to have uttered the immortal words “caw bugger buy, donnee know nort?”  Dad often times reminded me of that story.  I think he was quite proud of it and it made me chuckle.

My Dad could run fast.  Always faster than me as I remember.  He could wrestle too and if you ever found yourself in one of his Boston Crabs  you knew the match was pretty much over ... although when the inevitable submission came the ref was sometimes a bit slow to arrive.

My Dad was a draughts Grand Master.  Undefeated. Invincible.  No question.

My Dad was a gardener.  He loved to see things grow and, for the earlier part of my life at least, couch grass was my enemy.   

My Dad was a philosopher and social commentator.  Before Sainsburys was invented I remember the shopping trips and the endless waiting with him in the car, moving from parking space to parking space while mum gathered up the week’s provisions in small bundles.  At those times my sister Suzanne and I were educated as to the meaning of life and to the sheer variety and wonder of the assorted humankind that was obliviously passing by.

My Dad was a comedian.  It’s fair to say that not everyone who experienced it may have fully appreciated his talent in that area but humour is, after all, a subjective thing.  He made us laugh.

My Dad could bargain.  He was a negotiator of the highest order.  I remember him buying me a second hand car when I was eleven to drive around the farm.  It was a nice car and I wanted it as soon as I saw it despite the advanced state of rusting but the price was far too high at £30.  Dad laughed and started to walk away, which upset me quite a bit.  I needn’t have worried.  The car was delivered to our door the following day with a full tank of petrol for £10.  Bargain!  I learned a lot from my Dad.

My Dad was a farmer and I miss him every day.