My Dad: A life-force
I wrote a little while ago about my Mum. And I have mentioned my Dad (or Pagi as he is tagged by my kids) a few times in passing. And I suddenly realised that it’s probably a bit rude of me not to introduce him properly. Because much of what I write, much of what we experience in our new/old lives here at Granite Glen, happens because of, in spite of, or around him. Him.
My Dad.
Many who read this blog (and lurk!) already know this man. This Life Force that is my father. Because if I had to choose to succinctly describe him, if only one word could be used to convey his presence to those whose lives he has not yet entered, it would be this: ENERGY.
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My Dad has lived an unusual life – to him, of course, it is most everyday and completely normal. It has only occurred to me as I have settled into adulthood (an ongoing process, I’m finding!) just how amazing my Dad’s life has been. IS. Because while he might be facing ‘three score and ten’ down the barrel, his energy has dimmed little. He can (and does) put much younger men to shame with his extreme work ethic and ability to knuckle down and Get Things Done.
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I won’t give you chapter and verse here – there is a book in my father’s life which I may well be tempted to attempt at some stage – but a quick overview to give you a taste of his story.
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Dad was born to a horsewoman with a quick wit, steely determination and red hair, and a dairy farmer’s son who had ambition to burn and a way with horses, fast cars and my grandmother. He was their first son and (by his accounts) a kid with waaaayyy too much energy. From what I can gather, he was a normal, active, energetic, inquisitive kid who wanted to please. But cooping this kid up in town (where the family lived for a short period) was a recipe for disaster, and his worst memories from his childhood are being in serious trouble with the local constabulary for chasing the neighbourhood cats with intent to harm. He was (I believe) simply bored…
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My grandfather fell ill before my Dad was ten. He had just set the family up on a reasonable cattle property (with a mountain of hard work yet to do) when he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. This was pretty much a death sentence in those days, so he took it upon himself to arm my father with as much knowledge and philosophy about the cattle industry and hard work as possible. My father was the oldest of three and within a couple of years, he had stepped through that invisible threshold from childhood to manhood – the nominated head-to-be of his family. He had been at boarding school for just a couple of weeks when news came that his father had passed away. Yet he managed to complete this single year of secondary education (with an impressive report card) before returning to run the cattle property and assist his mother. One year. He had just turned 14 years old.
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In the years since he travelled back to Granite Glen, as a too-old 14-year-old preparing to step into his father’s shoes, he has worked. Long and hard. Like a Trojan. Worked at building something his father could be proud of. Worked at making sure his family had everything they needed, that his mother was taken care of, his sister happy, his baby brother brought up in the manner their father would have wanted. He soaked up all the wisdom of the men around him, the determination of his mother, fuelled by the legacy of his father’s dream. He worked at building something, with his sweet city wife, that his own family could in their turn take on and build on for their own families.
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He has shared what he knows about Hard Work and the Evils of Laziness. Of all the things you could say about him, you could never accuse him of resting on his laurels. The man is in perpetual motion. In fact, I’m sure he thinks if he does slow down, he will just stop. Completely.
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He doesn’t come across as a sentimental man, my Dad. He can be a bit gruff, and his growl has been known to stop grown men in their tracks. His Dad taught him many survival techniques, among which that you always need to strive for more, never be satisfied with second best and that only the smart and the tough survive. And if you are smart and tough, so much the better. There was no such thing as time out in his day. No touchy-feely stuff. Just achievement and failure. Black and white.
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That said, he was a good father. Fair. Tough but fair. He wanted us to be able to survive in the world, and armed us the only way he knew how. With a little dose of toughness in his love.
To him, the labour of this land has never been a burden really. He loves what he does. Really loves it. I vividly recall his voice ringing through the spotted gums during early morning musters:
Oh give me land, lots of land,
Adores seeing them grow and play, and prepare to join the mustering team. And I doubt you’d find a prouder bloke anywhere. Not that he’d say as much out loud. It’s locked under that tough exterior his father built for him so many years ago.
from the starry skies above…
Don’t fence me in!
and his admonishments as we would complain of having to ride out early on weekends (when our friends would be kicking back and watching TV or playing with friends):
Don’t you know there are kids out there who would PAY to do what you do?
As we grew older and more cheeky, we would flash back:
Oh yeah. then let’s get ’em out here pronto!
We are still waiting.
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He has rarely taken holidays away – sure Mum has dragged him off to the odd jaunt here and there, he has travelled to the Philippines and America and Argentina (but only on beef breeders’ tours so I’m not quite sure they really count) – but the magnetic force of this piece of land draws him back relentlessly.
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Mum has managed to retire – a well-earned respite from the endless demands of a business that shows little respect for ‘working hours’ or illness or physical or mental exhaustion. But Dad… well, he ‘officially’ lives on the small block near town with Mum. But in reality? Every weekday, he’s here, either at Granite Glen or with my brother and his family at the other end of the land that his Dad began to put together 60 years ago. It’s his home – not so much the house that he spent the past six decades in (and a good few nights each week in still) but the dirt and trees and grass and hills beyond. It’s where the dream began.
And now it’s where his kids and grandkids spend their time, where they too grow up. Two of them already go to the very same small school that he attended in his much-too-short childhood. And Pagi has taken to the role of grandfather with the same energy and ‘plenty of bounce to the ounce’ as he has shown throughout his life. He adores it.
Adores seeing them grow and play, and prepare to join the mustering team. And I doubt you’d find a prouder bloke anywhere. Not that he’d say as much out loud. It’s locked under that tough exterior his father built for him so many years ago. But it’s there. Can you see it?
Yet he will not stop. Work. Muster. Grade roads. Drive. Throw down a cuppa. Work. And when you find him still enough to suggest perhaps a holiday might be in order. That he’s nearly seventy and possibly needs to give his body a bit of a break. That he’s earned it. And he’ll look at me a bit incredulously, wave his massive, work worn hands toward the blue sky and granite hills around him and say:
Why?
Why would anyone ever want to do anything else?…
And then, without waiting for a response, he’s off.
Busy Doing Something.
9 Comments
Pencil Writer
Wonderful comments and tribute to the kind of man we need so many more of in the world today! Grit. You’re dad’s got grit. May God continue to bless him with good health and the good sense he’s had all his life, and to bless the rest of those whose lives he touches.
Thanks for sharing him with us. He might not want it, or easily accept it, but I’m sending a hug to him (through you) and to you for sharing. :-}
Pippi
What a great tribute to your dad and what a legacy was started by grandfathers before him. I lost my dad and mom way to early – I was 28 and 31 respecively. It brings a tear to my eyes to see the love for your dad and mom. I too loved my parents so deeply – it’s been over 30 years and I want to reach out and touch them. How blessed you are with wonderful parents.
Debby
Your father is a great man. He found his niche. He is content with his lot. Can anyone ask more from life?
And boy, he does not look nearly 70. I guess that’s what good living will do for you.
I'm Julie
Oh my gosh Bush Babe. What a tribute. Thanks for sharing. How lucky your kids are to have him for a Grandfather.
Kate
What a man! Such an amazing, and tough, life he has led. Your kids and so lucky to have an example like him in their lives. i don’t know either of my grandpas very well. It’s very sad. I’ll have to just read about your dad and pretend 🙂
jeanie
Awww – she got me and I KNOW the man and his story!!!!
I reckon he is living his dream retirement some days – so long as the man can hop on a horse and chase a few bovines around, he doesn’t understand the concept of “down”.
Tracey
You should write that book. Spellbinding post. Absolutely.
Bush Babe (of Granite Glen)
PW – yep, he has grit. Often between his teeth, many times across his face! Heh.
Pippi – welcome!! So sad you lost your parents… my Dad is so accident-prone (another post soon!) that I feel like I’ve been preparing myself for that eventuality since I was a kid. Am sure it won’t help a bit when it actually happens. My Dad and I have not always had a smooth ride in the Father-Daughter stakes, but I know how very lucky I am. Now.
Deb – yeah. He’s a rough diamond. But a good man. He doesn’t yearn for something material or other than that he has been blessed with. He has lived hard but healthy (at least in the nutrition dept!). As mentioned above, there is a LOT more to Dad which I might address at some time. We’ll see how he goes with this post!!! Heh.
Julie – our kids are seeing the very best of him. Makes me happy.
Kate – you can borrow him anytime. But be careful of the bark and growl. Heh.
Jeanie – honey, I can ‘get ya’ with footage of a bleeding horse race. You are a soft touch – one of the things I love ’bout ya!
Tracey – thanks!!! Wanna come babysit two kids, a hubby, a father, five horses, 10 dogs and about 3000 cattle while I write that book??? Maybe in a few years time, along with that novel… *sigh* in the meantime, I blog!!!
🙂
BB
Jenni
What a beautiful portrait of a truly great man. This brought tears to my eyes, BB!
Your dad reminds me so much of my husband’s grandfather who started the family construction business 60 years ago. Few could understand that he was doing what he loved. When he was diagnosed with liver cancer, he tried to keep working but his family worried too much. After he stopped working he declined rapidly. I’m not sure whether it’s the cancer that killed him or putting the brakes on that tremendous force which gave his soul the momentum to continue.