THIS IS THE DAY

MY DAD: BORN THIS DAY 1924

Today would have been my dad's 93rd birthday.

He isn't here to celebrate it with us, but we remember him with love through the years.

Dad died at 65, 20 years after suffering a series of massive strokes at 45 (or as the doctor airily insisted to my mum, who knew only too well what had happened, "It's just a touch of bad bronchitis, Mrs Barrass!"). The doctor walked out of my parents' bedroom that day, leaving my mum bereft and alone with the obvious lie that my dad had merely a bit of a chest infection, even though his speech was slurred and he was weakly doing the opposite of every action, pushing away when he should be pulling towards, spilling when he should be holding steady.

Only a second opinion brought diagnosis, but soon the ambulances were on strike and he was forgotten for much of the time he should have been fetched to physiotherapy. Such were the times at the dawn of the 1970s. The strokes left him permanently disabled and unable to do anything without support. For many things he most loved, that meant not enjoying them at all, ever again.

At 8, I saw the happy, strong, capable, funny dad who used to stand on his head to make me laugh and gave me fireman's lifts till I was hysterical with giggles, turn overnight into a stranger who struggled to make himself understood by slowly spelling out words on my old toy chalkboard with magnetic letters, choked at almost every meal and lived in a huge hospital-issue iron bed in our tiny front room with calipers, pulleys, feeding cups, commodes, canes and humiliating helplessness.

No more running down the path, past the freight weighing shed, across the yard, along the platform to meet him at the little station at the bottom of our garden where he worked as head porter and shunter. No more that thrill of hearing the purring crescendo of the engine of his motorbike as he arrived at the school gates to whisk me off home or on some impromptu adventure in the Yorkshire countryside.

Dad overseeing my first steps on the lawn

But that happy, strong, capable, funny dad was still inside that often child-like, stubborn stranger as I learned to understand, growing up in the shadow of his loss of freedom and dignity. So many things remind me of him with thankfulness: maps, bikes, unplanned picnics, cherry genoa cake, corned beef sandwiches with brown sauce, trifle, playing patience, silly black-and-white movies, radio comedy, pit ponies, mystery outings in the motorbike-and-sidecar, steam trains, railways, picking the second favourite in horse races on TV, the spiral staircase up Hooton Pagnell church tower, watching the wrestling and scrambling and snooker, tinkering with things, laughter with crinkled-up eyes.

Me & Dad near Filey, c1965

My next book, Cloudhover Solstice, is dedicated to him, set in the places on the beautiful Yorkshire Coast my dad loved and which, without him, I might never have discovered or laid down such treasured memories that keep him alive in my heart. I could go on, but I'll just say:

"Happy Birthday, Dad! We love you and we'll never forget!"

Dad & his only child - yours truly, 1961

My dad, porter at Bolton-on-Dearne railway station in the last days of steam.
Quintessential Yorkshireman and a decent, lovely lad.

Mum's 80th: defying ageist expectations

My Mum's just celebrated 80 years on the planet.

Nobody can ever quite believe she's 80. She's never adopted a one-size-fits-all blue rinse. She's never decided it's time to talk down to anybody younger than her, or say "In my day..." as if she's already turned up her toes.

She thinks young. She's full of gentleness and wisdom that has won her friends of all ages all her life.


So it's no affectation that she genuinely listens and tries to learn from every new situation, idea, sound and development in the world around her. She has a real taste for adventure, mixed with a healthy dose of circumspection, too, and has been up in a helicopter and the back of a Harley Davidson in her 70s.

In fact, to go on a motorbike again, the chosen mode of transport for her and my dad when I was a child, was one of her dearest wishes. A friend from her church fulfilled that dream for her, lending her his wife's helmet and leathers. She went speeding along with the wind in her hair and rolled back the years with her delight. This was an exhilarating joy she enthusiastically embraced and enjoyed with every fibre of her being.


She chooses to be herself, not to play at being elderly.


A few years ago, in 2004 when They Might Be Giants played the Leeds Irish Centre, she was there in the mosh pit at my side, vying to stay close enough to keep our place near John Linnell's keyboard and see his every facial expression and catch his every word. What fun we had that night. Mum not trailing along as a passenger, but just another happy fan in the audience.


So it's no surprise. When their long-awaited latest album 'Join Us' finally hit my iPod last month, Mum has been eager to learn the words, enjoy the lyrics and sing along to the irresistible tunes. She also eagerly devours news of the Johns from interviews and appearances, such as reach us via the web here in Yorkshire.

'They' are one of those bands who have no cut off age at either end of the demographic, from toddlers to seniors, but Mum's tastes also embrace many other bands, as well as classical and folk. We share so much! She reads and keeps abreast of current affairs and strives to understand enough about new technologies not to be uninformed and pushed into ignorance which might stop her getting alongside those of different generations.

All this after 20 years spent in turmoil, when, at the height of her powers and possibilities as a young wife and mother, she had to look after my Dad after his severe stroke and tackle every job and awkward, demeaning situation thrown her way with all her usual grace and humour when inside, she was filled with panic and hidden terrors. All this, and bringing up a young child to adulthood. I was that child, and saw at first hand what a remarkable job she did, in spite of her retiring, humble and self-doubting nature, on all these fronts.


To see her flourish now, in her golden years, freed from earlier crushing duties and her own ill-health when she was my age, to discover herself, is a privilege I'm thankful for every day. Not least I'm so grateful how she is so selflessly here for me, now I too have been stopped in the midst of my career by an illness that pulled the carpet from under my running.


So how did she spend her birthday? Earlier in the week, there was a surprise tea party with her friends from her own fellowship in her home village, with much laughter and new happy memories being made. Then there were many visits, cards and flowers from those who know her well, and others who she has made friends with later in life but who love her just as well.


We had lunch at a local pub with another friend, and the topics of conversation and laughter went on, as this feisty, generous lady proved that 80 is a notch on a gatepost as you pass by, not a sticky label to fasten you into a box!

Later we listened to music (yes - of course, including TMBG!), sang and hooted with laughter, and communicated with friends and family all over the world. We ended her big day watching another of her lifetime heroes, the beautiful Gregory Peck on DVD, one of my presents to her.

Another friend knew that scented hankies and knitting patterns don't really float Mum's boat, now or at any age, so gave her a jokey knitted octopus, a leg for each decade, which she wore on her head for some photos to make her friends of all ages smile.


Happy birthday, you lovely lady, beautiful inside and out! I'm so proud to have been able to celebrate your life on your big birthday this week. Long may you go on defying ageist expectations, and radiating your wisdom, insights and love into the lives of those of us blessed enough to know you! XXXX