My Dad Kicked Bombs For A Living
As a child growing up I use to tell friends, “… my dad kicks bombs for a living.” when asked the inevitable stupid question, ‘what does your dad do for a living.’ One because I was never sure at first what it was my dad did actually do and had overheard him talking to someone, one time, and say, “I kick bombs…” and giggling to myself though, oh, that’s cool. Never once, at whatever tender age I was at the time, realising what kicking bombs for a living actually meant or, entailed. And two, because I loved the look on the other kids faces when I told them that.
It wasn’t till much later it all made sense when one of my older brothers explained to me and, having a half ass explanation, had gone and asked my dad what exactly it was he did. By this point I was about 8 years old and we were living in Singapore, and I vaguely knew he worked putting bombs on planes. Though why they needed to carry bombs in the first place was still a little beyond me.
My dad had laughed for a good five minute when I told him what I told my friends. Yes, it was true that at one point he had kicked a single bomb, a dud he told me, when being pranked in his early career in Bomb Disposal just after the war. It turns out this was a phrase they guys used to pull the ladies in with when dating just after the war. Not that my dad mentioned this at the time, this was again, something I learnt from my mother much later as an adult teenager about to join the military myself.
Still, I have fond memories of grinning when I told other kids that my dad kicked bombs for a living and seeing their faces light up in glee and then, fear, seconds before one or two might call me a liar. But those kids were mostly civvy kids who didn’t know any better. Kids in the Air Force all knew their fathers could be doing some sort of scary job involving weapons and explosives. And, for me, as a kid, it seems wild and exciting, as I grew up, I began to understand the humour people like my father used when talking about some of the work they did, because it was far from exciting or glamorous.
My dad had the physical and metal scars to prove it. A three inch gash along his scalp to start with, when a missile fell on him from the undercarriage of an airplane during load-up.
He never did tell me if that was when he had his first heart attack. I often wonder.
My Mother The Runaway
My mother, by all accounts, had quite the life, especially in her younger years. Though some of what I know I only know from stories my sister told me much later, after my mum passed. What I did get to hear from my mother, firsthand, was how, despite being in a loveless marriage and an arranged marriage at that. And despite still only being a teenager (18), she ran away from home.
Let me tell you I was as surprised as anyone, knowing not only had my mother been married before she met my dad, but that it barely lasted a year before she knew she was suffocating, and left. That’s how she put it. From somewhere deep inside, she found the courage to not only leave a man she didn’t love. But in doing so, defied convention, this was back in the early stage of WWII. A number of women, she told me, were doing the same, signing up for service.
Why? Well, for the obvious, but also, because, at the time, the military were desperately recruiting as many young women as they could into the services. And, like many, my mum knew she wanted a better life. A different life, and one that gave her opportunities. She left to join the WAAFs and trained as an MT driver. Her first posting was to the outer most reaches of Scotland, to Stornoway in the Outer Hebrides. She served as a driver for the aircrew of squadrons patrolling the North Atlantic for U-boats, flying Avro Ansons under Costal Command.
She told me a story about how one night she was called up to drive out to the runway, in the dark, with no lights on, in order to help a troubled aircraft land. She had to guide the plane in by driving, still in the dark, but pumping her breaks to flash out a small red light for the plane to see and follow.
Can you image? I know I can’t fully grasp doing what she did, out there on her own, being guided by people in the tower to effectively slow drive her way up the runway for the plane to know when said runway was. All in the middle of the night in the pitch black of night.
For her, even terrified, she said it was one of the most exhilarating things she’s ever done in her life, and never once regretted escaping her family and marriage to create a life for herself. And for that, I salute her courage.
Life After Death
Or, surviving the loss of my parents.
Surviving a loved one’s death can only be personal and subjective. We all react differently, we all perceive differently, we all emote differently. Some feel the loss more keenly than others, some not so much. But one thing you can be sure of is, the loss of a loved one changes you no matter what your relationship was till that point.
I lost my father to lung cancer in 1991, he was only 68 years of age. His ‘illness’ was slow, debilitating, terrifying and painful right through till the last few weeks when, being cared for in our local hospice, my father passed quietly, almost peacefully after his (and yes, our) two year ordeal.
Heroic in her efforts and, till those last few weeks, my mother took on the all but lonely burden of looking after my father almost singlehandedly. Albeit with help, where we could, from the rest of us. Supporting and bolstering my mother, where we could, during a time where home care from any nursing services was, at best, minimal. Closer to the end, and before he was lucky enough to get into hospice care—and yes, I say lucky, because, due to space limitations, and the lack of hospice care in general, most people either die at home, or in hospital. And usually, with minimal care and attention. My mother had to feed, bath, dress and care for my father—a man she had already dedicated her life to for most of her adult life, sharing all the highs and lows along the way and giving birth to, and bringing up six children.
You've Got Mail
I was reading Veronique’s post recently, Just A Small Town Girl, and smiled at her lovely doodles. But there was one that caught my eye and then, brought a lump to my throat. It featured a hand drawn stamp and the words, Post Air Mail. And it hit me. I hadn’t had any real mail from anyone (not including birthday or Christmas cards) not since my mum passed away back in 1999.
It sent a shiver down my spine not just because that was over 20 years ago, but because, the last handwritten letter I ever got was from a dead woman: my mother.
Where ever I was in the world, travelling and or working, my mother almost religiously took time out of her day to write an aerogramme to me. Do you remember those? You buy them at any post office, singularly or in packs. I think my mother had a draw full of them—after all, she had six kids and if she wrote to me, you can be sure as hell, she wrote to us all at some point or other.
The thing is. The last piece of mail she wrote to anyone, was to me. She wrote to me, as she always did, on a Friday, so she could catch the last post. That last letter she wrote, was duly posted on a Friday and, would you believe, the following Monday, here in Quebec, I got two shocks.