Dear Chroniclers,despite the tinsel, glitter and general holly-bedecked merriment, for many of us the Christmas season can be a reflective, even a sad time.
With this in mind, may I present the shortest of short stories entitled, "Captain Fantastic and the dirt-kneed schoolboy".
Cast a pebble ...
By way of preamble, may I point you toward the photograph above. Fetlock the Butler rescued it just this morning from the electrofried photographic archives. I wonder if you may recognise the callow youth pictured deep in thought and about to launch yet another ill-timed skimmy pebble in the general direction of a stormy sea. If you look close you may see a small scar on his left knee.
So, without more ado - would you like a story? Then settle down and make yourself at home as I tell you something of my very own Captain Fantastic.
The Captain under enemy fire
My father was a Captain in the Second World War. He served in the Royal Engineers, building bridges with enemy fire all around. He always took great pride in his work.
I used to have a picture of him in uniform, a thick, dark moustache and hair slicked back - his eyes forever twinkling. It stood on the escritoire in my study. A picture of a young man frozen in time, off to war and leaving behind a fresh-faced Christmas Eve bride, the beautiful young woman destined to become the Black Dowager.
But for now, let's leave this couple happy in silent embrace as the snow falls on their Wedding Day. It covers them with a soft white coat as they fade from view.
The Black Dowager
Captain Fantastic used to have the most tremendous hugs. By the time I arrived on the scene he was a bear of a man, portly in stature and with a huge, hairy chest - all the better to embrace his young offspring. He used to hug me; often under enemy fire.
You see, Mother dear was forever nursing a string of the dead, the last of whom was my sister. She had ridden her bicycle behind a bus and out into the path of a passing car. Not a good thing to do.
I first discovered of my sister's existence aged three, exploring the immense walnut cupboard in my parents' bedroom. I levered opened the door and a small doll fell from the top shelf into my arms to be duly carried down to Mother. There were tears, but no hugs.
One day I hope, the Black Dowager will be re-united with the laughing girl in a white dress who still dances somewhere in an attic room, her short life captured in a few precious black and white photographs. One day I hope, she will learn to hug again.
A dirt-kneed boy
We lived close by the sea when we were young. Captain Fantastic took me out one day with my younger brother and the three of us walked the length of the beach to a causeway at the far end. It was here that we used to skip and jump across the man-hole bolted covers drilled at regular intervals into a sewage-pipe beneath.
Only this time I didn't jump quite far enough. I slipped on the thick, green sea-weed and fell headlong to the barnacle-encrusted concrete beneath. It took off most of the skin from my left knee and, if you look close, you can still see the scar to this day.
Captain Fantastic knew exactly what to do. He swept me up in his arms, a dirt-kneed schoolboy, and carried me off to the local sweet shop where he bought three bars of cinder toffee. We wolfed them down, brother, father and me!
The screen falls silent
My last few minutes with the Captain were shared sitting on the sofa watching a Sunday cricket match together. I was ten years old, mesmerised by swinging bats and the tick of the clock on the lounge wall. If I had known I might have hugged him some more before he disappeared.
The Captain had taken a new job in the south and was living in temporary accomodation with my elder brother, the rest of the family waiting to join him once the house had been sold. He left us in a car.
Captain Fantastic died alone in a Hertfordshire lay-by - a massive coronary. He never did get to see the end of the match.
Many things to say
There were so many things left unsaid and often at this time of year I dwell too deeply on them. This is not how the story should end, for life is just too short not to enjoy the hugs.
So I'll finish by typing the shortest letter to the Captain, wherever he may be, then enjoy the true embrace of my own family this Christmas. Should you feel the need, just click on the comments link below and post your own letter.
best regards
electrofried (mr)
Dear Dad,
Notts lost. Hope you're well and miss you loads,
love from the dirt-kneed schoolboy
7 comments:
This is such a sad and touching story. I have been lucky so far as to not lose anyone so close to me. I'm sure my time will come. For now I will remember to cherish every hug.
Electrofried , I'm not sure what I could say that would convey how that made me feel .
I am in the same boat as Samsarajade in never having lost a close relative . My grandparents passed long before I was old enough to realise .
I've never hugged my dad . I'm 35 . I don't even remember doing it as a kid . Reading your words , and knowing how shattered I'd be when the inevitable happens , makes me think , that maybe , one day soon , I should reach out to him . I normally only think that when I've had a few and I'm feeling more than a little maudlin , but I'm a sober as a judge , and have been for 25 days now .
Thank you .
dear samsarajade and jabba,
thank you so much for calling by and reading about the Captain. It means a lot to me to be able to tell someone else about his life and what he meant to me.
I thought long and hard about whether I should post this article, or, if I did then what exactly I should say. It would be too easy to dwell on the loss and my intention was to celebrate his life, rather than mourn his passing.
I will confess there was a tear in my eye and mrs electrofried was holding my hand as I pressed the "publish" button, but I'm jolly glad I did.
Jabba - it was good to learn of your twenty five day journey. My thoughts are with you, as every day more is another one to share hugs with someone. Perhaps,even your father!
with very best regards to you both,
electrofried (mr)
I remember the day well - coming back from a new school in London and seeing his car outside his Office and thinking that I wouldn't have to get the bus back to the farmhouse that we were both living in. It fell to his boss to pass on the news and I can always remember feeling so sorry for him as being the person having to tell his son that his father had died. They were great at the farmhouse helping to pack all his things while my mind was still numbed. There was a group of lads working on the local bypass who used to smuggle me into the local pub for a game of darts and a pint. One of them took me outside and told me how how well Dad had got on with them. He gave me some advice that will live in my memory and helped me through the following weeks. As with life so there is death - what I have learnt, for what it is worth, is enjoy life to the full. Perhaps the greatest memorial is to have three sons who have found happiness in their lives.
All the best from Gloucester
dear lagerfried,
oh my gosh! To exchange things as dear as this across a medium so transitory and impersonal as the web.
It was great to see you tonight. I only read your pasting on my return and I wish so much I could have said more when we met. I hope you didn't mind me putting so personal a story on the blog.
You are, and will be, the best elder brother I could ever have. When it was really bad, just after dad died ... you were an inspiration to me. You still are now.
much love
electrofried (mr)
dear eddyphilia,
bless you!
Can be in touch with all these feelings
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