I was going to write a tongue-in-cheek blog about ‘competitive grave visiting’ within a family that someone once told me about. And I will do that. But today is the anniversary of my dad’s death, so instead I’m going to honour him.
I’ve also just turned 59, the age he was when he died, and I realise I’ve lived half my life without him now.
He died in 1995 and although the sharpness of grief has faded to silver most of the time, much like scars do, it’s only recently I’ve given myself permission to still miss him terribly at certain moments. I’d always felt I was supposed to have bucked up and stopped moping years ago. But grief doesn’t work like that, and partly I’ve learned good lessons around this from my daughter and nieces.
I’ve taken the day off work today. First time I’ve ever done it on dad’s death day. My nieces always take their mum’s birthday and death day off work and I’d admire this. Obviously as you get older and lose more people, taking days off for everyone and everything is probably impractical. But there’s more than one way to skin a rabbit, as my dad would say. The important thing is to allow space, in whatever way you can, for grief to do its work.
Photo of mum and dad:
I just never really knew how to mark the day and his loss. My daughter (who sadly never met him) introduced the idea of a John Chaplin Memorial Walk a few years ago. He loved nature and going for long walks, even taking out groups of schoolkids orienteering on the weekends when he was a teacher. But the practicalities of where she lived and my work meant this never happened on the day he died. I’ve never made space for grief properly on that day, and I’m proud of myself for doing this today. And luckiest of all, she can join me this afternoon for a walk.
On these walks, we talk about him, I tell her about her grandad, the funny stories. I grew up near Greenham Common, and was in CND and would go to peace rallies there. As a Magistrate, the Peace Women would come in front of the bench when he was sitting, for acts of ‘civil disobedience’. He and I weren’t of the same view about them, but when a local pub, The Swan, refused to serve them, he refused to go there because he felt this was appalling discrimination.
On these walks, my daughter and I might take a slug of single malt from a hip flask and maybe smoke a bit of cigar for me to remember the scent of him (he did smoke cigars occasionally, and loved a single malt, when he could afford it – he was mostly a bitter man, but neither of us like that much – sorry Harveys).
He always smelled of wood smoke and the outdoors.
Some people remember their loved ones as being perfect. There may be some comfort in that but it’s not how I’m built. He was someone who thoughtfully assessed people and situations a lot, he’d analyse the behaviour of people at parties afterwards (what they had said, what he thought about that), that sort of thing. Deeply thoughtful and a bit wary of things going too well. I’ve inherited that. And for a long time, I felt I had to balance my memories of what a great dad he was, what he did for us all, how respected he was as a Magistrate, teacher and friend, with things I found challenging.
But this year I’m dumping that mindset and just remembering the joy of the man and how much I loved him. I’m letting grief take the reins today.
Cheers dad. I love you and I miss you and I thank you for everything you’ve given me. You’d love my daughter. She’s smart, funny and empathetic – and just like you and me – she really values and treasures her friends.