Alf away on Father’s Day

I haven’t posted in a while and I thought today would be an appropriate day to put fingertips to keyboard (definitely not as poetically pleasing as pen to paper). Alf is visiting family in the south of France so we are missing him on the day that celebrates fathers. I am aware that I give mine a hard time for most days out of the year, deservedly so in many instances, but today is the day to put aside all criticism, embrace Alf’s many qualities from which I have benefitted and sing his praises, forte, for all the world to hear.

Fuck that for a game of soldiers. That’s not what this blog is about. I took him out to lunch before he left.

Usually when I post a blog it has been bubbling away for some time and some brief notes have been made but in this case, I’ve got nothing. In an attempt to give some structure I am just going to plonk down whatever memories come to mind from the first that I can recall to the most recent, tattooed in my mind.

I have two early recollections from around the age of four. In one of these I am with my mother in our kitchen and Alf comes in and looks at me solemnly and says carefully “a friend of yours died today”. Oh no! My little brain whirrs. Amy! Lisa! Alf sees my horror and quickly puts me out of my misery. Our dog, Yankee has died. It was by far the worst event of my tiny life to date. Yet, somehow having allowed my mind to travel to unthinkable places with the feared loss of one of my four year old playmates, the passing of my beloved dog paled. I don’t think for a moment that this was Alf’s intention. I think he didn’t think about his opening line and how that would come across in isolation. Much like during his speech at my first wedding when he opened with “Megan is the easiest…” before taking a pregnant pause, leaving my new husband’s groomsman time to stand up and shout “That’s your wife he is talking about!” before Alf finishes his sentence “…person I know to get along with”.

My other early memory of Alf is of him coming home from work on the first day I was off from nursery school with chickenpox. I was very bored having completed my puzzle books and exhausted my surprisingly long attentions to Spirograph. Alf started slow, crouching down, moving his neck and raising his elbows. His eyes widen comedically as he typically embraces his role. By his second circuit around the room, it was clear he was regaling me with chicken impressions. My spots and I dissolved into fits of giggles, which encouraged many more laps. When I come up for air, my mother is standing in the doorway in her apron, smiling and shaking her head.

Birthday parties just didn’t happen for kids as they do now. At least where I live, it seems every child has a party every year. As a parent, you can easily spend half your weekend when your children are young, delivering them to parties and collecting them several hours later. Even worse, when they are very young, you have to stay to supervise! I had only a few birthday parties as a child but my brother and I were allowed summer parties occasionally. We were allowed 2o friends each so they must have been hard work for my parents. They were one hundred percent outdoor events. We had apple bobbing, hide and seek, we climbed trees, rode horses bareback, ate hot dogs and corn on the cob and Alf hosted the original slow bicycle race, the idea of which I confess made me slightly anxious. It was however, a great success with equal degrees of hilarity among my eleven year old friends and my brother’s seven year old pests.

When I got a bit older I was hired periodically to clean out Alf’s truck (the aforementioned semen mobile). I was allowed to keep whatever change I found as payment for my services. Alf spent a lot of time on the road with his mobile semen processing laboratory but it never ceased to amaze me how much I would find. There was loose change everywhere. It was in the cup holders, between the seat cushions, on the floor. I easily made away with more than twenty dollars. I was recounting this to Alf several years ago, so a good forty five years later. I saw something in his face as I retold my story and all at once I knew that he must have scattered all that change in advance. I imagine it would have given him great pleasure.

Once my parents divorced, Alf lived full time on his farm in upper state New York. He travelled the four hundred miles to see my brother and I on alternate weekends. We went to the movies, we stayed in hotels, we had long slow meals in restaurants, we went to the seaside and went beach combing. We were amused that Alf kept finding actual combs. I often had friends with me. In my pre-teens it continued and I would even encourage Alf to take us to the movies where I knew my boyfriend would be. The definition of boyfriend at the time was someone who said the words “Will you go out with me?”, to which you responded “Yes” and then you proceeded to never go anywhere at all together. I can imagine it was gut wrenching at the time to have made such an effort to visit, only to be met with your scheming daughter trying to spend time with someone else. Such is the selfish life of a girl of that age Alf but it is engrained in my mind forever that you carried on as you did and you can take some consolation in the fact that I was happy to be seen with you!

Recently Alf was putting things away in the cupboard behind the kitchen door. It is necessary for the kitchen door to be nearly closed when rummaging in that cupboard. My husband was passing as the dog pushed the kitchen door open further. “Hang on a minute”, shouted Alf. He closed the cupboard to make way for what he thought was a human, when he spots Tuka. “Oh it’s you.” “Jerk”, he mutters.

Over the years Alf has become a bit rough around the edges but he still has a big heart. My daughter is getting married this year and he has offered to forego any celebratory drinks to hire a van and give everyone lifts to and from the wedding. Yes please. Thank you. You’re the best.