Older than Dad

Three or so weeks ago on the 15^th of December 2015 my dad (Ronald Ron Thornton), had he lived this long, would have been celebrating his 92^nd birthday. But, at 57 - it was my birthday last Saturday -  I am older by almost two years than my father was when he died, far too young, just six weeks after completing his 55^th year.

My dad was a hard worker and, perhaps unusually for a man of his class, an adventurer. In addition to his jobs as industrial diamond polisher, hotel porter, toilet roll maker and other such occupations he owned and ran a printing company for a while as a young man and, with my mum (Dorothy Thornton), ran a restaurant for a couple of years in the mid-1970s. His taste for exploration led to our small family – dad, mum and I - all leaving Liverpool, the place of all our births, in the mid-1960s and we lived in north and south Wales, Sheffield, Blackburn, London, Edinburgh and, for a most memorable nine months, in the Bahamas before settling in Cornwall four years later. In part, I think, it was this travelling along with his spell abroad with the army at the end of WWII that stimulated him to write. That and his love of books, interest in faith and religion, the world, its environment and its peoples with a strong concern for the life chances and challenges of all. A few lines from one of his pieces expresses some of this:

Who can . . . . look upon the smile of a baby without gentleness touching the heart? 

Or stand at the edge of the sea, and seeing the horizon, feel solitude?

Or cry when sorrow bites deep, or happiness sweeps everything else away? 

Or fail to live a full life with joy, experiencing every moment as well as every day?

Only a man who is not yet awake,

A zombie! (untitled and written sometime in the 1970s).

In addition to prose poetry such as this he wrote fiction for adults (having some small successes at selling his short stories in the 1960s), and for children (which I loved) and completed a 45 thousand word memoir not long before he died in 1979.

He was a ‘man of his time’ seeing himself as head of household and keeper of the family checkbook. But, again unusually, perhaps even exceptionally for the time, he was a ‘man who did’ and a hands on father and the sometimes unconventional decisions he made where always in consultation with my mum, sometimes with me also. Our family life was full of love, fun and new experiences but, more often than not, not so much money; bean casserole being common fare in our house long before it was more fashionable. 

In the 37 years since my dad’s death I’ve been busy myself, both personally and professionally.  Whether through nature or nurture, indeed most probably both, his influence has been huge (my mum’s too but I’ll have that for another day) on my own spirit for life and all it involves. My intention here is not to list my own activities and experiences, achievements and disappointments, rather to reflect on the lasting significance of my father in my life and acknowledge the gratitude I feel for my lucky parentage and the parenting I received.

The last time I sat on my dad’s knee I was 15; just five years younger than I was when he died. ‘You’re getting a bit big for this’, he said whilst laughing and hugging me tightly. Nearly 40 years post ‘coming of age’ has brought me a share of adult roles and responsibilities and plenty of pleasure and a fair amount of pain. I feel then fully 'grown up' but just three years away from my seventh decade I will always be (although they are both deceased) my parent's child and still feel like a little girl when I think of my dad.

Gayle Letherby (nee Thornton)