To My Father
So where to start about Antony Levesley, my father. I suppose where I first remember him reading me stories tucked up in bed. Telling me of lands far away, how Odysseus outwitted the monsters and came home. We lay and listened and usually interrupted.
As I sat down to write this and reflect on how I knew my father 2 things came to me. My father liked his patterns, his routines, especially if they involved beer wine and family. For as long as I remember he played chess every week with his brother Fran. I understand his bacon sandwich at the golf club was a major weekly landmark also.
On the other hand he could and often would decide to do something. Why, most of us who followed on behind never quite understood. Recently he decided that Sky did not offer the service he wanted so he switched to Virgin.
How many cameras did my Father go through, let alone the ones he misplaced. He did like his gadgets.
One Easter Sunday many years ago, as the children lay sprawled around after Sunday lunch, he decided that we would all go to Beacon Park and play golf. He dragged us complaining all the way to the first tee. I would like to report that he showed us all how good he was and was able to pass on to his children his golfing wisdom and skills. Well once we had all hit a ball once or twice it became apparent that he was as rubbish as we were.
There is a thing about my father, it did not matter how good or bad he was at something, he would have a go and enjoy doing it. He did not care if he got it right. He would do his best and enjoy it whatever it was.
He did many things did my father. His job took him all over the world and when he came back he would tell us of what he had seen and done. My father had many adventures, few to be honest involved life threatening moments or true heroism. They were funny and warm accounts of the places he had been and they almost always involved the almost missed flight, missed boat, missed train.
I came back to Walsall and married and settled down. My father was always there for me, even when I did not need him and occasionally when I did not want him, but he was there. He was involved.
He always had an opinion and usually a story to go with it. He was very proud of all his grandchildren and wanted to be a part of their lives.
My father was to be honest rubbish at some things. He found it very difficult to be wrong, once he had made up his mind, he had decided and that was that.
Secondly, he was rubbish about telling people that he was unwell or hurt. I suppose if you think of the Black Knight in Monty Python, that was my father.
When he told me he had cancer, on top of his heart condition. I was brave and he carried on. He still played golf, he still went to Columbia for Christmas.
He wanted to be normal, to carry on. I saw him more and more of him, well he did offer to buy some of the beer. I became part of his routine.
It was when he said, he could not go out that I was really worried. I went around to his house and we sat and talked.
Two nights later he went into hospital and this time he stayed.
I sat with him on the Tuesday night and we talked and told each other stories. I held his hand while he lay tucked up in bed.
He was asleep when I left.
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