Bon soir Papa

Paul's a hard act to follow, I think you'll all agree.  I've been writing this post in my head for over a week now, but actually typing it out?  That's the nerve-wracking bit.

I'm going to tell you a bit about my Dad, Bill Dent.  And, as Bill automatically goes with Marion, she'll pop up here and there too.  Probably to check my grammar.  

Dad was born in Mt Isa, a mining town in Central Queensland.  He was the oldest of eight children.  Early on in his childhood, the family moved to the Blue Mountains, outside Sydney.  Dad's neighbours were authors Dymphna Cusack and Florence James, who co-wrote "Come in Spinner".  He also had memories of going to tea with author, artist and general reprobate Norman Lindsay every now and then.  Perhaps this early exposure to literary life fostered his own talent and love for the English language and its literature.  Dad was a renowned public speaker with a beautiful, melodious voice, a wonderful sense of the absurd and impeccable timing.  School Speech Days are hardly known for their entertainment value, but people looked forward to Toowoomba Grammar School's Speech Day each year, knowing that the Headmaster, Bill Dent, would deliver a speech well worth listening to.

Dad's passion was education.  During a speech made after his retirement, as guest speaker at (another) TGS Speech Day, he said that he "feared God, honoured the Queen, mistrusted Governments, and did my best to mould for good the sons of other men".  I am friends with a number of his former pupils, all of whom remember him fondly.  If our good friends the Clark-Dickson boys, David Schwarz and Brett Clark are any indication, Dad's goal was achieved.

But Dad was so much more than a teacher.  He and Mum were dedicated parents.  Having said that, I do remember hearing him give advice to a young couple.  "Never", he said, "let your children outnumber you."  Not advice he followed himself, luckily for me, not to mention my brother Andrew and my sister Min.  Tessa and Billy may not agree, of course!

So many things remind me of Dad.  Thunderstorms - we would stand under our patio and watch the wild Queensland summer storms lash overhead.  I might have been scared, but not with my Dad holding my hand.  Swimming at Kings Beach, Caloundra.  Dad would take me out of my depth and teach me how to catch a wave in to shore, how to recognise a dumper, and how to recover after the inevitable dumping.  I knew he'd keep me safe.  Mum was never quite so sure.  I vividly remember Mum standing on the sand, binoculars screwed into her eyes, desperately counting heads to make sure Dad hadn't absent-mindedly let any of us drown.

I think it's from Dad that I inherited my enjoyment of a good glass of wine.  It's certainly not from my tee-total, alcohol allergic Mum!  When I was about fifteen, Dad asked me to pour him a glass of whisky and water.  I asked him how much whisky I should put in the glass.  About two fingers, he replied.  I poured.  I measured.  I tipped a little out.  I measured again.  I added a touch.  I measured again.  Satisfied, I added the water.  Dad took a sip.  "Skinny little fingers you must have, Dear".

Everything in life happens for a reason, even if you don't know for a long time what that reason is.  When I was fourteen, it was difficult for me to see any reason why my beloved Dad should develop cancer.  I now know the reason, or at least the lesson I took from it, was instrumental in helping my own family get through Paul's illness.  For starters, I understood what Imogen was going through.  I'd been there myself, although at that stage Dad wasn't as ill as Paul would become.  And I have to say, Imogen handled her situation with a lot more dignity and grace than I had handled mine at much the same age.

The second invaluable lesson I learned both then and later, when Dad's cancer struck again, more aggressively, was a lesson in what a marriage should look like.  Mum and Dad were a devoted couple.  It was always hard to imagine one of them without the other.  When Paul was so ill, it was Mum's example that helped me to devote myself to Paul and the children.  I had watched Mum care for Dad for years.  I knew what to do.  I will always be grateful that I had Mum's example to follow.  Mum and I are very alike.  As a teenager I would have punched anyone who said that.  Now, it makes me proud.

My Dad died far too early.  He was only sixty two years old.  I was twenty two.  I had recently met Paul.  As Paul has said in earlier posts, we were very young and we got engaged very quickly.  A good decision.  For starters, it meant that Dad was at our engagement party.  He made a beautiful and funny speech.  He was very fond of Paul and it is a regret to me that they didn't have longer to get to know each other.

Another sorrow is that Dad never knew any of his beautiful grandchildren, all of whom have some of his characteristics, be it his love of literature, sense of humour, love of music, obsession with tidiness (not Imogen!), dislike of maths, interest in people, empathy, and so on and so on.

They say you should marry a man like your father.  On the surface, Paul and Dad are very different.  But underneath, in the things that really matter, they are very alike.  A strong work ethic.  A fierce loyalty to family.  A love of children.  A sense of decency.  A strong faith.  A determination to be good fathers and husbands.  All these things are important.  Dad and Paul share them all.

Oh, and they both have awesome wives.

When I was a little girl, after I'd had my bath and was in my pyjamas, I would run down the hallway to say goodnight to Dad.  And every night, we said the same thing.  Dad would say "Bon nuit, ma petite", and I would reply,  "Bon soir Papa".

Bon Soir Papa.  I love you.

Until next time,