It’s been a good while since I’ve put my thoughts and feelings into words. Since my dad passed away last year, my life has become a blur of change in a positive way. Now I reside west of Glasgow, where I see the Clyde every day slowly moving life elsewhere.
I’ve struggled to compose words that I deem of meaning. There’s little to no anxiety to feed it, something that’s taken me quite by surprise.
The past few months have seen me reflecting more on my life and the world around me. Time marches on without interruption, it’s inevitability is relentless. But, there is also that part that holds a mirror up to your life, reminding you that everything can be connected by slivers of memory, thought, and hope.
Today, my family and I were able to celebrate the memory of my dad and the very impact he had on us and so many others.
Beamish Museum is a living history museum in the North East of England that focuses on life from the 20th century from the region. My old man volunteered there, working around the train station, turning his hand to building and restoring while also working as part of a men’s Alzhiemers awareness group. We’d been asked to come along as they were unveiling a plaque dedicated to him.
Moments like these remind you of your legacy, that what we leave behind may be invisible to the eye, but it’s certainly tangible.
We were shown some of the things he’d worked on including a chicken coup and a bench, both beside the platform at the train station there, before walking over to the workshop where he spent most of his to time.
The building houses many pieces of machinery. A collection of metal, wood, oil, and rust resides there, each with its own particular tale to tell. One in particular still has links to us. Michelle, the representative from Beamish, told us to look at a cart in particular. Green wooden handles poked out from behind a roller, sitting upturned on worn wooden trestles. This, she said, was the last project my dad was working on before he passed away, unfinished in tribute to him. It seems fitting that it’s still there, upturned and unfinished, a metaphor that a few of us will understand.
The plaque itself is simple but carries a world of weight behind it, a suckerpunch that left me reeling on the ropes. Three simple words:
“Our Marra Brian”
Yeah, that hit home.
One of the guys he worked with gave a short speech about my dad, about how he would joke and wind people up. But, in a moment of weird synchronicity, he also talked about how his own mother had been diagnosed with alzhiemers too just a few days ago and how my dad has given him hope and a reminder that, despite the conditions horrible and cruel nature, you can try to live your life the best way possible, with dignity and hope.
We were given Blue Ribbands (my dad’s favourite biscuit) to toast him with. We were also given bags too, bags are used to raise funds for his group that are sold in the museum’s gift shop. The bags feature block prints carved by the men that are part of the group featuring images from Beamish with these particular ones using a print block that was the last one he helped make.
Yeah, it’s still emotional, and it still hurts. It hurts a lot. He crosses my mind several times a day, and each time stings me as much as the first. I’m still waiting to catch my breath, for the moment to come where it begins to feel that little bit easier. But it’s not happened yet. I don’t know if it ever will. It was good to celebrate his legacy and to hear stories from others about him, but there’s still that gaping hole of loss that I’m always reminded of. Bruce Springsteen, when talking about the death of his friend and bandmate Clarence Clemons, said the following:
“He was elemental in my life and losing him was like losing the rain.”
Each day is a drought, dad. I just wish you were here to make it rain, even just a little bit.
Thank you for taking the time to read this. It’s been a while since I’ve written and published anything here. My focus has been very much on myself and my world around me. I’m hoping to expand and explore this a little more in the next few months as I dig a little bit more into myself.
The Order Of The Dog 