Mark Twain once wrote that when he was fourteen he thought his father knew nothing, but by the time he was twenty-one that he was amazed how much his father had learned in seven years.
There is much about that quotation epitomised my relationship in earlier years with Dad, and how over many years I came to appreciate the man he was.
The saying goes that most New Yorkers have never visited the Statue of Liberty because it’s on their doorstep. I, for instance, never realised in my childhood what a beautiful village Roxby is because I had little to compare it to. By the same token I had only ever had one dad, so my dad was just … well, my dad. But as I got older, and as I became a father myself my frame of reference changed.
Dad was born 7th October 1930 in Vielle Case in the small Caribbean island of Dominica. He had five brothers and four sisters, most of whom were older than him and most of whom are still alive.
In his mid twenties Dad left the lush green vegetation of Dominica and azure blue seas of the Caribbean to travel to the delights of … Scunthorpe. Workers were needed from all around the Commonwealth to fuel the boom in British industry, so in 1956 Dad came as part of the Windrush generation, joining his brothers Uncle Angelo, Uncle Paddington and later Uncle Charles, having travelled on a banana cargo ship.
When he arrived here, Dad, who was never a big drinker, was told by his brothers “Everyone in England drinks. You’ll have to drink or you’ll freeze to death”. Most of Dad’s brothers eventually returned to Dominica; only Dad and his younger brother, Uncle Charles stayed behind to make a life here.
It was here that he met my mother, whom he later married. Together they had four children: Linton, myself (Leon), Yvette and Lorraine.
Life was hard for my parents in those early years. They worked hard, Dad often doing double shifts in some of the toughest and most dangerous parts of the steelworks. All throughout my life Dad told me he did so that we, his children, could have opportunities that he didn’t have.
Dad was nothing if not fiercely independent minded. He ploughed his own furrow, as the saying goes. He bought the houses on Cottage Beck Road and here in Roxby when it was extremely rare for a working class man to own his own property rather than renting. He moved to Roxby when it was practically unheard of for a West Indian to move into a rural English village.
I sometimes think of the courage and the strength of mind that it took for him to do what he did, not following long established precedents, but in many respects pioneering, but this time from west to east rather than from east to west.
Local people came to know and like him. He and his evergreen garden became as much a landmark in this village as any other feature. One of the funniest stories he told me was when the local gamekeeper pinned a Vote Conservative poster on the tree of his front garden just prior to a general election. Anyone who knew Dad would know why that’s funny.
The prophet Isaiah wrote of Jesus that he would be ‘acquainted with grief’. That was also true of my parents. They have known more of it than you would hope that any one would. Linton died serving in Humberside Police Force in 1979. Thirteen years later Lorraine died of heart complications in 1992 while working as a lecturer at Middlesex University.
The loss of both Linton and Lorraine taught all of us how short and delicate life is, and how to appreciate the family we have remaining.
But Heaven is not some wispy ethereal place where some live on only the memories of those left behind. It is a real, tangible place, as real as the one we are in today. The resurrection from the dead for those in Christ is real. That is not grief-ridden wishful thinking, that is what the Word of God states.
So yes, Dad, Linton, Lorraine and many more will most definitely gather at the river that flows by the throne of God.
When, as a teenager, I was young and foolish and angry, when I was a walking accident waiting to happen, when I threw away the educational opportunities that were never afforded to Dad, as much as it hurt him at the time, my father played a critical role in my life later being restored.
He was always on my side, always had my absolute best interests at heart, would always rather see his children happy than be happy himself. This isn’t a rose tinted retrospective. This is the truth of the man I called Dad.
When, in later years, I graduated my masters, no-one in the Liverpool Philharmonic Hall was prouder than Dad. He’d tell anyone who’d listen that his son was like Bill Gates.
He bought me a kettle when he was laying incapacitated in hospital a couple of months ago, just because he knew we needed one, and just because giving to his children gave him so much pleasure. It glows blue when you turn it on. It’s really cool.
There were certainly times when Dad’s disposition was less than sunny. I seem to have inherited the grumpy gene from him. Yvette and I would often remark that, at times, Mum deserved some kind of medal for sainthood.
Sometimes he would say things like: “Pass me a drink, Barbara”
to which his much loved and very cheeky granddaughter Monique would chime in:
“Granddad, you’re perfectly capable. Go fetch it yourself”.
Mum would still end up fetching it.
Dad had a unique gift for saying inappropriate things at inappropriate times. Recently, when I picked him up from Scunthorpe Hospital he was being pushed along in a wheelchair through one of the inclined corridors, he said to the nurse pushing him.
“You know, the last nurse who pushed me up this corridor, she was really fat. She was puffing and panting”.
I’d cringe and say “Dad, you can’t say things like that these days”
He just replied “What are you talking about, Leon? I’m not calling this one fat”
Dad’s views on political and current affairs matters were always passionately held and expressed. Although we didn’t agree on absolutely everything, we agreed on a lot. His views were never based on ignorance, hostility or prejudice towards anyone. Instead they carried an incredible generosity of spirit, something my wife Pauline commented on from the very outset.
Mum and Dad celebrated their Golden Wedding Anniversary last year. Mum cared for Dad in hospital as tirelessly and lovingly as any one human being could do for another. Even the hospital staff commented on it. Dad thanked her for it, just a few days ago.
When any of his family came to see him, Dad’s face lit up. It’s a wonderful feeling to know you can make someone’s day just by turning up.
Some sons and daughters write songs or books about how they never had the chance to say to their parents what was really on their mind. I, therefore, consider myself blessed that I had the opportunity to tell Dad how much I truly appreciated all that he’d done for me earlier in my life. I know that meant a lot to him.
Therefore, it is fitting that I stand before you today and say this of a man who never sought the limelight or self glorification:
My father taught me everything I could ever want to know about integrity, decency and dignity.
He taught me in the best way in which a son could ever learn – he taught me by the example of his life.
We, his family, knew that he loved each one of us. He knew that we loved him.