Life According To Dad

Never Hold Discussions With The Monkey

De: John Elliott

Narrado por: Virtual Voice

Years ago, during a late summer hike through the woods near our home in Weybridge, England, I thought of writing this book about my father. That day was like another, years earlier when my father and I walked the same familiar paths...A gentle rain fell, and Dad and I were wearing our wellies (our rubber Wellington boots). The sweet, deep rich earth infused by the rain surrounded us as we walked along. A pair of tiny robins were happily splashing away in a puddle just a few feet from us, chirping merrily as they bathed. I was just twelve years old, and always looked forward to our times together like this, looking for excitement wherever it might be found.
In my young mind, an adventure could always be found right around the next twist of the damp path through the woods, over the next hill, or even up the tallest climbable tree we could find. It didn’t matter, because I was with my father, and that was usually enough for me. If we hadn’t made that fantastic discovery we were about to stumble upon, it would have been fine all the same because on the way home he would have regaled me with a story so mesmerizing it was sure to stay in my conscious thoughts for the rest of my life. That’s how it was with my father, somehow, one way or the other, he would make sure that it would be a day to remember.
But I must say that, in hindsight, it was about to turn into a day neither one of us would ever forget. Dad saw it first and knew right away what it was. When he told me to come quickly to see what he had found, I ran to his side and stared in the direction he was pointing, I only saw the wet jumble of winter-green ferns and the mass of shrubbery which seemed to engulf whatever it was he was going on about. Upon closer examination, however, its form and unmistakable shape became quite apparent. Both its wings were missing, but its body remained almost intact.
Dad identified it as a Messerschmitt ME-109 fighter aircraft from the German Luftwaffe. He said it must have been shot down during the Battle of Britain. Several large bullet holes had punctured its aluminum skin and formed a lazy arc from one end of its body to the other. And here it was, ours for the taking! At least, that was my first thought. We frantically pulled away the tangle of vines that seemed to enshroud the shattered cockpit of the airplane, only to find what he said was a femur or human thigh bone. Triumphantly I reached inside the cockpit and, grabbing the bone, held it above my head while grinning from ear to ear.
Even for my father, that was a bit too much, and he made me put it back gently and respectfully. He then launched into the first lesson of the day, and was talking about the poor German pilot, and the family he had left behind, and said we had to contact the appropriate authorities to make sure the remains would be returned to Germany. I briefly argued about how the Germans were our enemy back then, but Dad always managed to somehow diffuse the most delicate issues at hand and soon had me seeing the light of day.
And now, more than fifty years later those enduring memories comfort me, whenever I feel a little vulnerable or afraid, whenever life seems to take an ominous turn, when crises hit, or when my daughters or grandchildren seek advice, I still feel my father’s steadying hand, his gently nudge, his wise council, and the gems of wisdom uttered forth.
The following stories I've written about, are mainly hilarious misadventures, and some will have the readers scratching their heads in disbelief, but they all have a common thread. All of the episodes reveal the love and tenderness, the caring embrace found only within the tight bonds of a closely-knit family, and the astounding level of compassion and tenderness towards everyone they knew.