MY DAD, JECK
I think it’s the smell of him I remember; or perhaps it’s the way he looked -- his baggy pants and his odd little limp; but then again it might be the way he smiled. I guess it’s all those things.
I just know in my mind the image is large. None of my other memories of my family loom so big. Nothing else brings me to tears like that mind picture.
He was always called Jeck -- right from his childhood. His real name was Jack, but at one time when he was growing up apparently, the family had a workman from New Zealand; and in the way that only New Zealanders can manipulate a vowel, he became Jeck. The nuance in his name stuck.
Jeck was a fisherman. We lived just above the water in a part timber-part fibro house. Mum always called it a shack. "Don't bring visitors to this old shack", she'd say, ashamed of the place. But dad didn't care about the house.
"The house doesn't bring in any money", he'd say. "All you need is a roof over your head -- what more do you want?"
If she protested too much he'd say, "Do you want to build your own bloody house, Woman?"
But he wasn't mean -- you could tell by the twinkle in his blue eyes that he was joking. He had the softest blue eyes and when he was taking the mickey out of you his whole face would light up. He could never disguise his laughing eyes -- such a contrast in his leathery brown face.
After me, Mum had three more kids, so she couldn't leave. "I stayed because I had you children to bring up," she'd say.
Mum knew it was her job to bring up kids and Dad knew it was his job to catch fish.
Dad always wore the same clothes; day after day -- week after week. He never altered his outfit; he wore faded khaki pants -- a size too big -- and baggy round the legs. The material was supple; tough, pure cotton, well worn into his shape. The matching shirt had two big pockets, one on each side of the chest, with a buttoned down flap. He never bought short sleeves ever. He wore his shirts with the sleeves rolled to the elbow -- always -- winter and summer. He had an old canvas jacket on the boat of course -- just for the winter winds.
I remember standing on the jetty watching for his boat. When it came, gently rocking on the swell with a 'tock tock' of the wood as he moved his gear, the first thing I saw was him-- tall and erect in the boat-- looking for someone on the jetty. He never admitted it was me he was looking for. Satisfied I was there, he got on with fixing his equipment -- packing it away ready for the next trip.
I always thought he'd fall as he stepped out of the boat, because his limp was permanent, and getting out of the boat caused him to buckle down on his left side. He'd been to war and still had some shrapnel, he said, in his hip. That caused him to dip his one leg as he walked and with each step his trousers at the knee bobbed in and out
His big felt hat was well worn too -- 'comfortable,' he said. It wasn't khaki of course; but maybe it was bleached by the sun, because it was nearly the same colour as his clothes. In any case it was always on his head. He'd come to the table and sit down and mum would say, "Jeck --your hat! For goodness sake!" So he'd put it down on the floor beside his chair.
He had a real marine smell. Mum used to say the salt was in his skin. I loved standing on the jetty breathing in the rich salt air that blew my hair back like a sail on a boat -- and he had that same smell.
But sometimes he'd have a few fish scales on him and smell a bit fishy; and when he put his arms around me I'd wrinkle my nose up. He'd chuckle to himself and ruffled my hair with his hand -- his big brown hand -- brown from constantly being in the sun.
He'd pretend to be shocked and say, "I washed my hands in the sea!"
Mum used to have a hard time getting his clothes clean. She scrubbed them on a wash board with a big cake of home-made soap. Eventually her fingernails all went black and started to decay at the edges. She said she had 'a germ in the nail.' I think she had a germ in most of her nails.
When dad died, even though I was an adult, I felt as if I'd woken up in the middle of an operation and all my insides were exposed. Whenever I went back to the old jetty I would look back out over the ocean, close my eyes, and see him coming towards me, his feet braced on the deck of his little wooden boat. I’d feel my heart aching as if it was struggling to get out of my chest to go bobbing along on the water.
Of course for the last 20 years he had a much bigger boat; but my memories were all of the little wooden boat, clunking against the jetty as he tied it up.
Last year mum died as well. I couldn't believe the old house was still there, until an official looking letter from the council finally found me, telling me I'd have to have the 'beach shack' removed. It was a hazard they said, in case of a bad storm. I wanted to argue with them and tell them that it had stood there for 90 years, but you can't fight City Hall.
I went back there -- in fact I spent a night there -- after I'd cleaned up one room of dead leaves and cobwebs so I could put my stuff down and sleep.
I lay awake for hours thinking about the past. I don't sleep much at night any more anyway -- prowl around the house like an old witch looking for her broom most can I just have a few minutes on posters are nownights -- and then doze like a drunk all day.
Old age has not been kind to me and turning 70 was a real jolt. I've started going to church and I think about death a lot. That night there in the old shack, (sorry dad), I had this dream. I was down on the jetty; Dad wasn't coming and I got so tired; so I put my head down on the boards and looked up at the clouds. It was so peaceful there. The clouds started turning around in lazy circles and I felt as if I was drifting, floating, sort of in the air like a feather on the breeze -- or a little boat on the water. I didn't want it to end -- I just wanted to stay like that forever.
Then In the dream I must have gone to sleep, because suddenly I heard this clunking -- loud enough to wake me up. I stood up on the jetty searching around for a boat, and then I saw him. He was in his little wooden boat; standing up straight -- feet braced on the deck -- but he wasn't coming towards me -- he was drifting away -- leaving me behind.
Then I woke up. I got a real shock to realise I was back in the shack.
I left the next morning and went home; but before I could make arrangements for the removal of the shack a violent storm blew in from the ocean and completely demolished it, spreading the old boards and tin all over the town. The council had to clean it up and take it to the dump.
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