“I’ll tell you a wee story”….

A remembrance of Dad, by Andrea.

“I’ll tell you a wee story”….

That’s how my father would start his bedtime stories to me when I was a child. Like many children, I loved those moments with my dad. Typically, he wouldn’t have a book though. He’d make up some recurring story usually about a wee boy running out on the road only to be knocked down by a big truck….the story of wee Johnny McCory. I was not scared. Dad just made the story interesting and curious. I had questions. My four year old brain failed to ask dad though if that was based on a true story. In any case,  I never did run out on the road. Thank you, dad. 

As in many families and cultures around the world, words and stories hold significant value. After all, dad’s late cousin, Famous Seamus is a Nobel Prize winning laureate. Imagine that! My father loved a good story and delighted us with his use of fun words and phrases such as, “fiddlesticks and jam sandwiches” or “codswallop” and, “eejit” and, my favourite…”Jesus, Mary and Joseph”. I know that such words are not so original. But, when dad said them, I just laughed. His Irish upbringing were in the days of “though shalt not speak unless spoken to” and “children should be seen and not heard”. And yet. Dad’s family was full of teasing, love and laughter and there were many stories to be shared. Over the years, Dad would tell wee stories about this Aunt or that neighbour and no matter who it was about they were often stories woven with affection, good will and love, “Ach, she was a bad article so she was” and, “Did I tell you the time Aunt Sally put me in the wardrobe and shook it about to get the badness out of me”?  As dad would say, he was not clever like in the Seamus Heaney kind of way but…he knew the power of words and was nostalgic enough to share his stories and experiences.

Dad was…first and for most, loyal. Loyal to the two countries he loved, Ireland and Australia. A loyal Manchester United Fan. A loyal Cricket fan. A loyal dog parent to Shandy and more recently to Lizzie his two beloved Irish Setters. A loyal son, brother, husband, father and grandfather. Best of all, Dad was a loyal friend. He enjoyed a good joke, enjoyed reading Stephen King and hearing ghost stories. Above all, dad was kind, soft hearted, easygoing. Curious. Fun. Eager. Capable. Maker of potato crisp sandwiches. Creative. Adventurous. Stable. Supportive. Maker of baked beans and grilled cheese on toast.  He was always the flashlight/torch carrier in the dark. Although hardly a drinker in his formative years, he enjoyed a good Guinness or Jameson Whiskey once we moved to Canada.

I do believe that my father found his voice and confidence while living in Australia. He was at his most happiest then. Dad could be a shy, sensitive and stoic man who did not wish to speak his mind in large groups but rather listened and took heed. He used humour to stifle discomfort and yet was the first one in our family I would see cry when I was at the age of 21 and Dad’s own mother died, the death of the first grandparent for my brother and I. Dad greeted me at Aldergrove airport with a big hug and a shoulder squeeze and then took me by the hand and led me to the room where my Granny lay in her coffin back in Mullaghboy Crescent in Bellaghy. His love and support was solid.

Years earlier, in 1986 when I was 16 years of age I went through my first (of many) relationship break ups and although this relationship was a mere 6 week event…nevertheless, it stung. At the time, my father was away in the middle of the South Australian desert in a hot and dusty place called Roxby Downs. He had been away for three months, tasked with the difficult job of building houses for the many men and women who had also left their families to work in the uranium mines in the middle of that sunburnt country. Mum had obviously shared with dad that I had been unceremoniously dumped by my first boyfriend and that I was just a wee bit “distraught”. A week later I received a letter in the mail from dad and in part, he wrote: 

“Mam was saying your romancing life has had a setback and from my experience you’ll feel lonely, mad, brokenhearted….all those silly thoughts we’ve all had over the years. But, you’ve got years of time yet and, there will be plenty of fun ahead…just take each week at a time and don’t fret or be sorry for the past, just put it down to experience. Ask mum, she will verify this. And, furthermore…you would love the sunsets here Andrea, and even the sunrise looks good. It’s a lovely country up here and worth the experience, if only one could have their family here to share it with”.

This piece of writing from my father holds so much meaning for me. I hear him say …get out and live your life. Don’t dwell in the past. Enjoy the sunrise and sunsets with people whom you love. Look to the future and most of all, have fun. That, was my father. Loving, compassionate, forward thinking, hopeful and, full of fun. 

Dad loved us. And we, loved him.  Where we went, he went. Dad loved a drive in the car. Circa 1979, Australia… all of us in dad’s Ford Falcon stationwagon…dad at the wheel, windows down. Driving up through the winding roads and the hairpin turn in the road known as the Devils’ Elbow… through the Adelaide Hills until we would come to a park or some bush or a side of the road with a wee view. We’d pile out of the car and dad would ensure Shandy (the dog) had a drink of water and us kids had ridiculous sunblock on our noses and hats on our heads. Off we would wander through the bush. Hiking…well, not quite…more like meandering about and chasing the dog. Dad with his flask of tea. Sandwiches. Find a picnic bench under a nice big Euclayptus tree. Binoculars. Frisbee. More tea and biscuits. I never understood back then why one might drink hot tea on a hot day. Dad, he was smart. 

If not for the Adelaide Hills there would be drives to the beach. Cricket games on the beach with dad bowling underarm for me. More sunblock. Lean to tents (artfully erected by dad) to protect us from the scorching Australian sun. Dad was terrified of water…couldn’t swim…leftover from the days when his own father took him and his sister out in the middle of a lough in a row boat and threw them overboard to teach them how to swim. My grandfather meant well. Somehow they survived to tell the tale but dad nor my Aunt Veronica ever got over their fear of water. Despite that, during those days at the beach dad would wade out up to his knees and swing me around in the ocean by my hands. He’d drop me in only to laugh hysterically as he grabbed for me again and again. 

Dad was in his element on those windy roads and at the beach ….kids and dog in the back of the car. His Mary, by his side. He would whistle. He was not a good whistler. He smiled. A lot. The days at the beach with dad are my most favourite and treasured moments of time well spent together. Examining starfish and looking for seashells. Running up and down the beach after the dog and flying frisbees through the air. Then there were the barbeques and pool games, the roasting marshmallows and toasting toast and sausages over the fire, staying up late and watching the magic of the stars and getting up early to watch the sunrise in Edithburgh when it was pitch black outside. On one such occasion…at 4:30am…my father and I walked in pitch black darkness to watch the sunrise….he linked arms with me as we walked the twenty minutes walk from our shack, through the town and down to the end of the jetty with him carrying the torch and making scary faces at me in the dark and telling ghost stories the entire way. 

I was lucky. My father was a good dad. He invited me into his world. Took me along with him for the ride. Would lift me up and sit my little 6 year old self up on top of a piece of wood in the garage as he sawed at the end of the piece of wood. Likely it was for the doghouse that he was building for Shandy. Dad gave me wee jobs…”put all those nails and the screws and nuts and bolts into little jars, go on…get on with it”. I loved the smell of the garage. The dust. The woodchips. Dad’s special carpentary things. His toolbox. It was a throughother kind of place…Dad’s garage. Dad built a bench in the garage so we could watch the table tennis matches between him and Paul and Mum. He loved playing table tennis, soccer, cricket, frisbee with us. Dad would even cook the Christmas turkey in the shed. Too hot to cook it in the house, of course. The garage shed was much hotter though. I didn’t understand. But, he loved mum so, he did what he was told. Christmas in Australia was always an adventure and Dad, well…he just made everything possible and fun.

When Mum would go to work at nights we’d get to stay up late (like, probably it was 8 or 9pm) and Dad would let Paul and I watch Dave Allen with him. The funny Irish comedian who’d smoke a cigarette and drink a whiskey on stage as he sat and told jokes about the Pope, the priests, the nuns. Ach, the nuns. Dad’s infectious laugh. Contagious. I felt guilty for laughing at such Catholic and Holy things. It really was an idyllic childhood in Australia and dad made it all an adventure for my brother and I. As a child (when I had done something naughty) I was often sent to my room by mum she would say “Wait until your father gets home”. Dad would finally arrive after what seemed like hours having been banished to my room (in all likelihood it was probably for about ten minutes) and he would open the door and peak in and say “nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah”. Poor mum. Inevitably I’d be taken along with dad to walk the dog and be given a good talking to. It went something like this, “Ach Andrea. Behave yourself”. Full stop.  

Our father loved his life in Adelaide, South Australia. He loved us. He never faltered. Built a foundation for us like his stone mason of a Father. Sturdy and capable. Men of few words. Strong and loving. I suppose (like many other families) it was because we were an immigrant family in a new land. Sticking together was what we just did. Just the four of us…after having left Belfast and moved to Adelaide we just kept together. Dad (nor mum) didn’t want us to go far without one another. 

Moving to Canada, immigrants again….well, this was a hard move on dad. Dad did his best to “get on with it” and adjust to the cold winters and the subway and the noise of condo living. He missed his drives in the Adelaide hills and his walks on the beach. Displaced and sad, my father taught me then the real lesson about life. We make sacrifices for the benefits of our loved ones. We stick it out and love one another. We hold our heads up and be courageous even in the depths of our grief and, we don’t go it alone. We reach out for friendship and remain curious about the world in the process. We, persevere and find joy where we can. That will steady us when life is hard. 

My father taught me about happiness and about getting on with things… about taking risks… “Just go for it” he would tell me.  Don’t hold back. Such sage advice. When he drove me to a job interview for a job that I really wanted he said to me, “You go in there with all your experience and all the places you’ve been and show them who you are and what you’ve got and you’ll see”. He was right. And, when I came out to him at the age of 28 and told him I was in love with a woman…dad said to me, “Ach Andrea. I just want you to buy a wee house and settle yourself. Be happy”. At the age of 49 I can now say, thank you dad. I did just that and because of your love, support and guidance,I really am happy. Took me a while and, well, sure that was the thing about Dad….it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter how one went about things…just as long as they were kind, did good towards others and tried their best. Dad, he tried his best. Was not perfect but, he tried.

As many of you know, these last five years of dad’s life in long term care at “The Lodge” have been absolutely heartbreaking and fraught with upset, grief and pain. Unexplained bruises, many falls that no one ever saw, blackened eyes and bloody cuts on his head and face. A seemingly never-ending medicated haze. Sleep and more sleep. Dad has been through the worst of it. He told me once, “never put me in a home….when it comes time…just pull the plug”. I am so sorry that I could not do that for my father. That it had to have come to that lonely and painful existence for him is just devastatingly sad for all of us. 

And yet. 

Through this experience of frontal temporal lobe dementia and feeding my dad his lunch and dinner for the last five years I have witnessed many beautiful moments. In the stillness of those moments with dad… it was in his smile, the curious eyes, the reaching out for us and the holding on tight that gave me the strength to cope. And, I saw kindness….many times. The way some staff would greet my dad, our family and the other residents…all with unique stories and experiences of their own. Many of the staff at “The Lodge” really do care about our family and I am truly grateful and appreciative of those individuals who go above and beyond every day to care for people who can no longer care for themselves. Dad also grew to appreciate them. In his smiles and dancing eyes he would watch and participate in receiving the caregiving being offered to him. Dad’s bravery and acceptance of this care was (ironically) actually really beautiful to witness. It was in witnessing his strength that gave us all strength too.

From the wee corner row house in Bellaghy, to the Troubled streets of Belfast, to the open roads of Adelaide and to the hustle of Toronto, my father kept his cool and kept me close. He showed me that the world is a curious and wonderful place to be in and that one must be courageous and not just “get on with it” but, to really live in this world one must not give up on one’s search for fun and pleasure…be it a good Guinness or a great laugh with friends and family. Dad helped mould me into the person I am today and I will forever be grateful to my father who showed me what love, friendship and family are all about. Most of all, he taught me to hold on tight to those we love and cherish. A remarkable man of extraordinary courage who was not afraid to change countries three times and to keep on going and step up when his family and friends needed him the most. 

This man was my father, Michael Joseph Joyce. I miss him terribly, already.