A Good Man

Stuff is happening.

Weirdy stuff. Stuff that shouldn’t happen in the normal course of daily life. But it is. Happening, that is. I get this periodically. I’m not a religious person but I am familar with some of the more spiritual aspects of life.

I know some people don’t believe in all this stuff so I’ll say this first: I fully support your position not to believe in stuff. Just also please support my position that this weirdy stuff tends to happen pretty often to me and my family that we tend to view it as more natural than supernatural.

The conditions were all there for it to be happening again. Fertile ground, so to speak. A major upset in routine by our big trip, an opening of new horizons that shook accepted norms and hence an opening of the mind, a loosening of the grip on the routines of daily life and a questioning of ‘what next?.

I’ve been an advocate of Taoism for the past 13 years, and to feel oneself in the flow of life, in both spiritual and temporal ways is often a precursor of events. Of course one must be a willing partner in this, to have the position of being prepared to be in the flow and to trust in the Universe. Ideally, we’d be in the flow all the time, but we’re human and the world has many distractions. However from time to time clarity breaks through.

I guess this is all a lead up to telling you that this week my dad came to see me. Not unusual until you know that my dad died in 2008.

It was during a lucid dream that echoed ones that had happened after my mum died, but this was way clearer. I was surprised to see him, but he told me that he wanted to come see me, to let me know that he was doing just fine and that he is very happy. I could see that. He was smiling so much – he never smiled that much before – and he looked so well. I could smell his familiar scent as he sat next to me.

Suddenly I felt like that little kid who spent so many evenings watching Morecambe and Wise, Dick Emery, the Goodies and all those familiar tv programs from her dad’s lap. His arms around me and my head resting on his shoulders that seemed to be as wide as the Clyde, I would feel so secure and loved. And when I fell asleep he would carry me to my bed and tuck me in. Even on the nights I was awake at bed time, I’d get a piggy back ‘coal carry’.

When my mum was too tired after tea, my dad would help me do stuff like wash my socks so I had clean white socks for school the next day, or show me how to bake bread, and make a fancy loaf when you braided three strands of bread together.

He’d take me to the pictures, and to the Saturday afternoon cartoons at the Classic cinema. He’d bring me candy ball sweeties when he came home from nightshift and make me cups of hot tea and buttered toast before I went to bed, and always buy me a toy when we went past Guthries toy shop when we went to see Granda in Maryhill.

When my first marriage was a shambles and I was stuck in a one bedroom flat with not a blade of grass in sight and a one year old son who wanted to go out to play he, widowed by now, opened his home to us. And when we moved to Australia he came too and I had the privilege of looking after him until he passed, although he was still helping me up until then.

All through my childhood, first marriage, divorce and fourteen years of motherhood my Dad was there to help me, and my son.

When I met Steven, Dad, who was always down on everyone, never had a bad word to say about him. The night he passed it was after a few minutes of discomfort and Steven and I were there helping him get settled, and he just took a deep sigh as he lay down and I tucked him in, and he was gone.

Perhaps he knew I’d met the man that was from now on to be my helper in life, and felt settled enough to let go. His health hadn’t been great for a long time but he’d held on til now.

And so he came to see me on Wednesday night. I knew I could have asked him anything I wanted to and he would have told me, but just to see his face, his smile, his shining eyes and his once-stooped shoulders broad again was enough to fill my heart with everything I needed to know.

He wasn’t always easy, but he was a good man, my Dad.

Published by Maggie

Writer, traveller, observer.

3 thoughts on “A Good Man

  1. Oh nuts, I'm tearing up. I readily believe you saw him and am so glad he's OK. Maybe I'll be lucky enough to get a visit from my own Dad one day. x

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