Fathers of old were made of granite, or so it appeared. Today’s fathers are pussycats. When I see my grandchildren rushing out to greet their dad when they see his car arriving, the four-year-old grabs one leg, the three-year-old grabs the other, and a third one ends up on his shoulders.
I see the fathers of today walking along with buggies and prams, and babies strapped to their chests. They change nappies, give bottles and sing babies to sleep. I think today’s fathers praise their children, which should produce more evolved human beings.
A lot of the old-style fathers were remote from their families. My father-in-law ate his meals in the parlour, away from the family. One of his sons would jump out the window when he saw his father coming. My own father definitely appeared to be made of granite. I never saw him smile. He never cracked a joke or gave a hug, and he was very critical.
There were seven in our family. Growing up in Skreen, Co Sligo, the girls were told they were plasters, whatever that meant, and the boys were told they would end up “breaking stones ”. My father had his problems; being flogged unconscious by a sadistic teacher in a west Cork national school didn’t help. He was carried home on a shutter taken from the window (that teacher would be jailed today). He was also a Collins man in the civil war, and there hangs another terrible tale.
My mother was an angel. She often sang Danny Boy, which we all loved. She loved the simple things in life, especially nature, and a good novel. Time rolled on, as it does, and she passed away at 1960 from severe arthritis.
A few years later we were all celebrating something or other. One of the guests got up to sing, and the song was Danny Boy. We all loved it. She had to stop halfway through when we all saw tears streaming down my father's face . He wasn't made of granite after all.
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