Spare a Thought For Your Dad
Most poets write about their wonderful Mum
And Iím sure that it makes them feel glad,
But it takes two to tango for the desired out come,
So please spare a thought for your dad..
Many times heís forgotten and classed as a sinner
And Iím afraid that sometimes that is the case,
But think of the Dads who are the bread-winner,
There are so many that you just couldnít replace.
I think again of my Dad when I was a child
And his love that was ever on call,
A man of calm disposition, he seldom got wild
But he would brook no disobedience at all.
So long as we always done what we were told,
There was never a harsh word to embrace,
But if we wavered and became over- bold ,
We had to suffer the consequence of disgrace.
When those teenage years at last came around,
I suffered that disease that affects nearly all teens,
Itís called oppositeitis and causes many a frown,
As teenagers strive to live above their means.
And now that Iím older & much wiser I hope,
I thank my Dad for his discipline and respect ,
I have written this story from the slippery slope
Of my coming old age, and to what I expect.
Not the Man He Used to Be
I look at the clock on the wall. Itís almost knock off time. I canít go straight home tonight. I have to call in and see my dad. Heís in an old peopleís nursing home and with a heavy heart I think of the man he used to be. Strong, reliable and honest, with a wonderful sense of humour. A loving father and husband and a friend to all who knew him. Now as he slips into his twilight years, dementia has crept upon him and he lives in a world of shifting shadows, sudden bursts of sunshine and dark threatening clouds. I pull up outside the home and with a great feeling of sorrow, I make my way inside. I wonder how Iíll find him today.
He stands there in a doorway and wonders where he is. He looks down the passageway to the left and sees people sitting in lounge chairs, and then thinks, I donít know them. Who are they? Then he looks to the right and sees more strangers seated in more chairs around the lounge. Puzzled, he pauses and wonders why heís here. Then a nurse comes and takes him by the hand and leads him to a chair.
ĎYou sit here Dave, just take it easy and donít worry about a thing,í she says in her cheerful voice. Bewildered he does as heís told and stares vacantly at the people around him. Then through the mist that floats before him he sees his wife, thatís right, sheís getting his dinner. It must be dinnertime, heís starting to feel hungry but then his memory fades again and all he sees are the clouds closing in, blocking out that memory that had been almost within his grasp.
His brain is desperately searching the files in his mind but a sense of frustration overwhelms him, and his language is spoken in terms that none can comprehend. Then suddenly this stranger is pulling up a chair beside him. Who is he, what does he want? ĎHello Dad, how are you feeling today,í I ask him in gentle voice. ĎYou should be outside in the sun; itís such a beautiful day outsideí. Dadís face is creased in a puzzled frown as he looks at this man that is seated beside him, then slowly his face breaks into a smile, as faint recognition starts to break through the haze of his mind. He searches for a name to put to the face but itís like trying to grasp a wisp of smoke, and then that too is gone.
ĎIím your son Lindsay, you remember me Dad, donít you. I was in here to see you yesterday, you knew me then.í Then as a fleeting glimpse of memory reaches his befuddled brain, this bewildered old man grasps me by the hand and hangs on as if he will never let it go. ĎHow are you Lins, Iím glad youíve come, Iíll go and pack my bag and come home with you now.í I feel overwhelmed by a feeling of great sadness and gaze lovingly at my poor old Dad, and realize that he has a problem that no doctor can mend.
ĎIíve got to go and do some shopping first Dad and then Iíll come back and get you. You stay here till then and donít worry about a thing.í
Then I think of the good times that I shared with my Dad. The football matches that we went too, screaming our heads off for Collingwood, the absolute joy when we won and the complete dejection when we lost. Those wonderful trips up to Deniliquin on the Edwards River where we caught all those big Murray cod and all the rabbiting trips up into the Bendowie ranges. Those times when the ferrets stayed in the burrows and we had to dig them out. Yes, they were the days. As I sit here now and gaze into his face my heart is nearly breaking in two, and I realize the day will come when I too will change places with my Dad, and my son will come and visit me in some old peopleís home and the age old story will be repeated once again. Lindsay P Wilson