Sunday, October 8, 2023
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A Tribute to my Dad
When my dad died this past week after being seriously ill for the last two years, it was still a shock to the system.
We’re never really ready for the ‘kick in the guts’, I suppose.
It has given me pause to think over the past week about my relationship with my dad. To be honest, we were never really super close, but close enough.
I put that down to his growing up as a child during WW2 and being very affected by that era, and the stoic way men just were in that era.
Add to that, his own father was not exactly a shining beacon of fatherhood, although that is a discussion for another day.
And it’s not to say my dad wasn’t loquacious at times. He had to be, as a staunch Union representative.
Indeed, he finished his career with the job title of Federal Union Rep. of the ‘Amalgamated Metalworkers Union'—a tough, no-nonsense job if ever there was one, especially in the era of Liberal Party dominance in Australia during the 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, and 90s.
It was just when it came to the ‘icky’ subject of emotions, feelings, and self-expression that he didn't'shine', let’s say.
To borrow a phrase, my dad probably had the ‘emotional range of a teaspoon.’
But as I said, he grew up in difficult times where he had to learn to survive mostly on his own with just the support of his mother, Kitty, and his lovely sister, Dorothy.
And it made me think about my own development and temperament.
Honestly, when I look back over the years, I was definitely more sensitive and easily affected by emotions. I’m pretty sure I got that from my mum.
At least that helped me in my second choice of career when I changed from plumbing to primary school teaching and used that'sensitivity' towards looking out for the kids in my care!
Seriously, even in my late teens, even up to my late 20s, I would often feel aggrieved at dad for not being more ‘involved’ and understanding.
It was later, when mum told me about his childhood and how mean his father had been, that I started to'soften' when it came to judging my dad.
And he did have a funny, sarcastic sense of humour, which I’ve acquired over the years.
It’s the same old story. We think we are going to be SO different from our parents but end up ‘hearing them’ in our own responses to the world.
You just have to be near me and hear me ‘go off’ when an LNP politician comes on the radio or tele, and you’d think it was my dad in younger form.
And I KNOW I was probably too sensitive most of the time. I can remember being so disappointed when I was about 7 or 8 years old when watching the beginning of the original black and white TV series, ‘Super Man’, with George Reeves (NOT Christopher Reeve. Oh, just Google it!
I can hear the voice-over guy even now…
“Super Man! Fighting for truth, justice, AND the American way!”
My dad just made a disparaging “Pfffttt” sound and exclaimed...
“How can he fight for both?”
I SO wanted him to like the things we liked. I was crushed!
I also remember another time being ‘crushed’ when I was watching my favourite TV series of the time, ‘Lost In Space’, when suddenly, at the end of the show, the TV announcer said that it was the end of the series.
I rushed out into the kitchen, where mum and dad were talking and emotionally exclaimed,
“Mum! Dad! Lost In Space isn’t going to be on anymore!”
Instantly, the reply came from my dad.
“You won’t be on anymore if you don’t piss off outta here!”
Crushed again!
But, as my mind started wandering over these childhood and early memories, it wasn’t just the ‘rejections’ and beltings I’d received (I’ve thought about it, and believe me, I probably deserved them!) I started to remember.
It was the other, quiet reflections that made me think that, although my dad couldn’t or wouldn’t express himself emotionally, he did care.
I remember a time at Maroubra Beach in the 1970s when my sister and I were quickly swept away by a fierce rip.
I quickly knew I was in trouble because I had gone towards the rocks at North Maroubra, and the Christmas King tides were making the waves wash over me every few seconds, which made it so hard to take a breath.
I was starting to panic and was starting to tire—quickly!
All of a sudden, my dad turned up and got hold of me to try to keep me above the waves so I could breathe. I’m pretty sure he was getting pretty tired because, after a few minutes, he seemed to be holding me up less and less.
Luckily, we were eventually swept onto the rocks. Dad had me covered so that I wouldn’t get cut up on the rocks, but he came out bleeding profusely from the cuts.
The other thing I remembered was that he was ‘filthy’ with a bunch of teenagers who hadn’t tried to help us out of the water but were actually laughing at our predicament.
I think dad left them with some very ‘blue’ language I was unaccustomed to hearing, even living in La Perouse!
In a happy ending for both my sister and me, some guy on the beach saw what was going on and commandeered a body-surfing board off some kid and paddled out to collect my sister, who had been taken out the back of the waves some distance offshore.
I also remember dad’s cutting remark some time later, when, being naughty as usual, he said to me...
“I should have gotten your sister and left you to fend for yourself in the surf that day!"
OUCH!
As I grew older, I became inured to my dad’s cutting remarks and sarcasm. But one day, he got me a beauty!
I was nineteen and had had enough of living with my parents when I decided to move out for the first time.
My friend, Gene Torchia, had come around to help me move my stuff, and when I was ready to actually leave, my dad became really serious.
I thought, here it comes, the old ‘be careful out there, son’ talk.
I should have known! Dad was working up to another one of his cutting remarks.
He said, “Trevor, it’s going to get tough out there. Maybe, at times, it’ll get really, really tough. But whatever you do…
WHATEVER you do (his face dissolving into a huge grin)…
don’t come back!
Just DON’T COME BACK!”
My mate Gene roared with laughter. Dad’s sarcasm had struck again!
But for all that and his pretty taciturn personality at times, I knew he did care, even if he couldn’t express it.
One story that comes to mind is when I was at Matraville High School in 1975 and we won the state-wide ‘Arthur Buchan Shield’ for rugby.
This competition ran for quite a few months, and we played many of the games on our own ground within the school.
I would often not bother telling my dad the game was even on because I just expected he wouldn’t turn up because he would be too busy at work.
But no!
EVERY time we played a home game, I would glance out onto the grass verge between the north and south running Anzac Parade outside our school grounds.
And EVERY time we played, I would see his car, a beige-coloured Holden Kingswood (Number Plate: BAR 040) parked on the grass verge watching the game.
I even remember one of the games being played in torrential rain one day. I was stuck in the middle of a ruck trying to secure the ball for our side when I happened to look in the direction of the grass verge.
There, through the rough, thick heads of the opposition players and the driving rain, was that beige car, BAR 040, on the hill, positioned to get the best view of the game.
But I never remember dad even once asking me about the game or who won.
Go figure!
I suppose dad was just a product of his upbringing, but underneath it all, I think he had goodness and caring inside him, even if he couldn’t express it too well.
And I KNOW he worked hard for the workers in his industry and fought hard to get them the working conditions he felt they deserved.
In the end, I’m pretty sure he was satisfied with his effort and achievements in life, be it work or family.
I suppose, in the language of all Australians of his era, he would have thought that he was considered a “good bloke.”
In his eyes, it’s probably the highest honour and esteem he's garnered over a very long life.
And I think he was justified in that self-assessment!
R.I.P. Stuart Harry Aloysius Maurice, 1931–2023.
Dad, you did well in your long, 92-year-old life!
Love, Trevor (your ‘naughty’ son)
