Every Day is Fathers Day

It has been a year of firsts but to be expected following the death of my Father last July.

There have been some difficult and poignant moments but these have been far outweighed by the positive and joyful emotions that come from fond memories of Father as head of the family and invaribly at the head of the table for the seasonal celebrations and everything inbetween.

We have faithfully and respectfully kept up the family traditions that have found us, in willing participation to support Mother, watching competitive town centre cycle races on a balmy summers night, noisily celebrating Christmas in a tartan and ginger wig, up at the Black Mill Tower amongst fireworks and flammable chinese lanterns on a very stormy and changeable New Years, on the painful under foot frost peaked sandy beaches at Filey, Bridlington and Fraisthorpe in the lingering cold of a late winter and early spring, strolling through the ankle high bluebells in Burton Bushes, straining up a steep incline in Elloughton Dale, congregating in easy chairs in the back garden at Beverley, sitting down to a wonderful meals and good familiar conversation whenever the family can be mustered from all parts UK and Stateside.

These have all been firsts without Father and today, being Fathers Day is particularly reflective and full of reminiscences.

Of course, on the actual day in just about every past year I can remember Father was never in for his dutiful offspring to visit.

This was the day which coincided on a regular annual basis wiith his navigational and problem solving duties alongside Tony York on the challenging reliability runs in the classic Rover 75. This involved a very early start with pack-up, Thermos and possibly Kendal Mint Cake supplies with travelling on to a rendezvous point somewhere points west or north before reaching the location for the competition, fun and games typically on the Yorkshire Moors, in the Dales or as far as Cleveland or Tyne and Wear.

It was a long day of precision motoring, quizzes and the exercise of what would now be regarded as long lost or neglected protocols and matters of etiquette in the art of driving. The dynamic combination of experience, wisdom, downright common sense and certainly top quality repartee and humour will have been most excellent- if only the vehicle had been rigged for recorded sound.

Tony York kindly provided us with a wonderful photograph of Father undeniably in his most natural of environments amongst the sights, sounds, smells and oily residues of cars. To the victors the spoils and a good days effort was rewarded by the accolations of their fellow competitors and the plundering of more silverware for the trophy cabinet- of course on a strictly shared basis between the two collaborators.

I would make a point of always marking Fathers Day by calling round to the house in full knowledge that he was out and about on one of his treasured days on four wheels. The back garden soon accumulated a collection of my gift items of various degrees of naffness and absolute zero practicality from a faux stone Easter island statue to a reflective stainless steel ball  and from a glut of hanging baskets to a replica chimney pot in which to grow strawberries, amongst many other end of product ranges from B&Q.

I would receive a phone call in the evening upon his return to thank me for that years offering. The relaxed happiness and contentment in his voice from his exploits out on the roads were a reflection of his true self and even though there were the trademark awkward silences in the conversations I will always regard them as the most magic of moments between a father and a son.