Edward Roy Cawdell
“I didn’t want to kiss you goodbye, that was the trouble; I wanted to kiss you goodnight. And there’s a lot of difference.” ~ Ernest Hemingway.
Fourteen years have gone since your passing. Does it get any easier, the days in between do, but those special days, your birthday, my birthday, fathers day, Christmas and the 9th August still bring me to tears.
I remember that day like it was yesterday, the seconds move forward in slow motion. The sounds, images, words and the people with me, so vivid. My brothers voice, so strange, what’s wrong with him, then screaming, frightened children running. Repeatedly writing and writing to leach it from me, but still it stays, will that day always remain with me, so strong. The funeral I was unable to attend, never really being able to say goodbye. For weeks feeling like a part of me was missing, your being like a phantom pain in an amputated limb. I’d wake up in the morning , and for a second everything was normal, until I remembered.
You were only 61, so much ahead of you, seeing your grandchildren arrive into this world, and grow to the wonderful young men and woman they are becoming. Your retirement after all those years working to provide for your family, time for just you and Mum. A massive heart attack in your sleep, the only mercy was that you felt no pain, I’m grateful for that. There were police there, I hated that, it felt so….dirty, but it had to be, a sudden unexplained death.
I do prefer my happy memories though of a very wonderful father, and there are so many more of them, you were funny, intelligent, charming, cheeky and very loving and affectionate. A wonderful chess opponent, but a terrible dance partner, remember the French’s wedding, you trampled all over my feet, you were shocking, but I still loved dancing with you, I was so proud. I remembered you singing in church, how could anyone forget, Cath asked you to stop, she was an embarrassed teenager, but you just said, “God gave me this voice, he deserves to listen to it”. I loved watching you playing conductor to your much loved classical music, when you thought no one was watching. And whenever I hear Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, I think of you. You made everyone around you feel important and special, you had such a natural way with people. You inspired us all, to be kind and loving and loyal and to work hard at everything we do, and I see who you were, in little parts, in my kids everyday.
We all still miss you, myself, Dave, Ted, John, Jen and Cath, but we talk of you often and those memories bring us great happiness and tears of joy. You have lots of grandchildren, five girls and eight boys, they’re growing up quickly and very soon you’re to be a great grandfather, a little girl is on the way. The due date, your birthday. We”re all so looking forward to that. Mum can’t wait to be a great grandmother. I planted a tree for you, I wanted an Elder, but couldn’t get one, so I planted an Oak instead. It’s growing tall, lush and strong, and I like sitting under it and thinking of you. I’ve felt you many times, when I’m talking to you and I hear your laugh, when you come to me in my dreams, I can’t believe we don’t live on. And when I’m old, very old after a long and happy life, with my children, grandchildren and maybe if I’m really lucky great grandchildren, I look forward to being with you again.
All those good memories and mostly good days, I love that, I love that it’s getting easier. I love that the good memories now outweigh the bad one.
God rest you, my beautiful and wonderful Dad. Shine brightly.
I’ve never really got cookery shows, those of a competitive nature such Masterchef or any number of cookery shows by master chefs. Now I can sit and salivate over a beautiful dish put in front of me but seeing the same on television, well that’s just cruel. Now I have a wonderful friend who just adores them and for her its food porn. Her Masterchef is my crime thriller television and she’s the same with recipe books. She just loves poring over a good cookery book, like I would a medieval or tudor history book.
Recently though Sky Living have started running five series of My Kitchen Rules Australia back to back and I am hooked, BIG TIME. And yet I’m not really sure what it is that’s drawn me in, is it the food perhaps the personalities and as the series move from one to the next those personalities are getting bigger and nastier. I just don’t know. And of course the two tastiest dishes would have to be the judges, Manu Fieldel(right) and Pete Evans.
So am I wrong ladies.
So it is certainly not a chore. Or perhaps its the images of my childhood, having grown up in Australia, the first series included a couple from Shorncliffe in Queensland, a place close to my heart and where my grandmother lived and it brought back memories of Sunday evenings just me, my father and grandmother sitting down to her mock chicken, a favourite of mine. If you’re wondering mock chicken is grated raw potato mixed with egg and seasoning and shallow fried and by the way it tastes (nothing) like chicken but boy was it good to this child.
So I get food, its about the memories it conjures up, of happy times with friends and loved ones. I now live in Ireland but the smell of ripe fruit takes me right back to my childhood. So what is it about cookery shows, has anyone any ideas or thoughts. I’d love to hear them. What is the great attraction?
The one thing watching MKR AUS has done is made me more adventurous in the kitchen. After cooking family meals for the past 25 years, one gets a little jaded. Cooking meals that no one turns up to or everyone turns up (including boyfriend, girlfriend and or other unexpected guests) and I’m forced to utter the immortal words, no its fine I’m not hungry (grrrr). But I’ve tried experimenting with flavours and combining and trying something different and I’m enjoying it.
I searched my kindle recently for a book on flavours and all it could give me was anything and everything on the Hay diet. Maybe I need a different approach.
I think I might be developing a new interest, only time will tell.
My Dad. He died suddenly, so, I would love to spend just a few more hours with him. To watch his imaginary orchestration of the classical music he loved, when he thought no one was watching. To hear him laugh, to play chess with him, to dance with him and get all my toes broken, again. Just to sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes more.
To hear him tell me he's proud of me, no matter what I've done. To know he's happy and at peace.
To ask him did he know what was happening, and then to ask him to forgive me for ever doubting it.
To tell him how much I love him and hug him one last time.