Taexalia

wild.life

Happy Father’s Day

I am reminded that it is Father's Day here in Scotland. I have to be reminded of the date because it isn't one that formed an integral part of my calendar as a child. I recall one episode in school where I had to participate with the class in making our fathers a Father's Day Card and this was very odd for me since I had no-one to give it to. When I vocalised this fact to a friend I was treated to the curious stares of rather a lot of the classroom - in the mid 70s divorce was still a taboo you see.

The end result of that weird day in school was a stuffing of a pointless piece of creation into a playground bin and the opportunity for three girls to practise their pronunciation of the word bastard for a fortnight. Clearly having two parents does not equate to being more eloquent, educated or empathic.

I never really knew my father and when I heard that he died, somewhere in my early twenties, I was more upset about the fact that I felt nothing than about the fact I now really didn't have a father at all. I have some fragmented memories of him when he still lived with us but mostly my memory bank of that time is a blank and my theory is that I somehow blotted it all out - he was an abusive alcoholic.

The most available memories of him are after my Mum divorced him. Every Saturday we had to traipse down to meet him at the shoemakers on the corner of Skene Square (there was not roundabout in those days). This was not visitation because he didn't have any, this was so that Mum could collect the paltry sum of £5 alimony for each of us. Even in the 70s, £5 was really not a lot of money to keep a child for a week. This memory tells you a lot about Scots Law at the time with regards to protecting women ~ my father was able to refuse to pay her unless she agreed to meet him every week. The courts colluded and enabled his continued possessive sickness.

Another memory I have is walking down George Street with some of my teenage friends. I saw him walking towards me. It had been some years since I had seen him - he had simply stopped turning up to pay his way and I think my Mum decided it was better to just be done with it. Anyway I announced to my friends "there's my father" and decided to say "Hello" to him. He blanked me and crossed the road and in that moment something died in my heart, or perhaps it froze. That was when I started calling him my sperm donor.

So I have no idea what it is like to be a child with a father, although these days I have the luxury of a Dad that I still call by his given name and a father-in-law ish. I have sent them both good wishes today :)

Scotland doesn't have a Granda's Day but it is my Granda that I remember as being the bestest male in my life. I have many more memories of him, the crofter milking his coo and his never ending battle with drainage in the front field. He was a fine Buchan man taken far too soon but he gave me many gifts.

So today I will honour him by posting his voice now transferred to digital from a cassette tape he made many years ago. Apparently he was alone in the hoose one day and decided to record himself singing some old bothy ballads. Years later Mum found the tape and it is quite magical to be able to listen to him and feel that he isn't that far way really.

Always maks me greet tho...

Steward Russell sings Nicky Tams

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Posted on June 15, 2008 in Uncategorized.

3 Responses to “Happy Father’s Day”

  1. GreenishLady says:
    June 15, 2008 at 11:10 pm

    That tape is wonderful. What a gift to have left for you. I just have this wonderful picture of him singing away in his kitchen. Lovely!

  2. Slutty McWhore says:
    June 17, 2008 at 1:34 am

    Hello! I just discovered your blog after you left a comment over at Misssy’s blog. I’m glad to discover another Scottish female blogger, as there don’t seem to be enough of us around (or maybe I just don’t look hard enough).

    If I wasn’t sitting in a cafe right now I would listen to your grandfather’s voice. It’s funny that you recorded him, as I now wish I had recorded my own grandfather before he died several years ago. He was an Ayrshire shepherd all his life, and had such a rich, colourful language. It’s a shame because, even though I understand broad Scots, I never speak it (except perhaps for a few words here and there), so in a sense it has died out in our family.

    I can’t believe your father was such a bastard, by the way! How incredibly cruel to blank you when you saw him in the street. I guess he must have been struggling with a lot of demons to behave in such a manner. My heart goes out to your mother for having to struggle so much as a single mother. Women are so much stronger than men, I think. They have to be.

  3. Prairie Star says:
    June 17, 2008 at 11:37 am

    Hello there!

    I was stopping by to re-read your “I am the one who’s…” to jog my memory of the process.

    What an absolute treat to get to hear your Granda singing this morning ;o)! I’m smiling and tapping my foot in time.

    Twinkles,

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