Dad was witty and warm and very loving. He had a wonderful sense of humour, and a great sense of the ridiculous. Our Dad wasn't a conventional Dad. He was an artist, musician, hippy-type of Dad. This means that he didn't do the archetypal “Dad” stuff with us, but being incredibly inventive and creative, found other ways to influence, nurture and entertain us.
Most of our memories of Dad revolve around his creativity and artistry. There was a flour tin which Dad had labelled with a cartoon of a daisy hauling itself up with a block and tackle—a self-raising flower. It might have taken a few of us a while to grasp the concept of puns, but we liked the picture. We always had the best fancy dress costumes, hand-made by Mum and Dad, with Dad coming up with innovative ways of adding minute details, such as olde-fashioned shoe buckles on our sensible lace-up shoes. Our birthday parties always featured make-your-own party hats, where we and our friends would get to cut out our hat and decorate it with whatever bits and pieces Dad provided: glitter, stars, dried pasta or tin-foil!
There was the drawing table where he prepared his scores for publication—we were fascinated (and sorely tempted) by the special pens we were not allowed to play with, the sheets of Letraset clefs, crotchets, and minims with gaps where they had been transferred to the page, the scalpels and cow gum and other esoteric paraphernalia. (Dad was cutting and pasting long before it became a keyboard shortcut!)
Dad taught electronic music at the then Tasmanian College of Advanced Education, and would sneak us in on occasional weekends to boggle at the synthesisers with their rows and rows of knobs and patchboards and joystick mysteriously labelled ‘white noise’. He gave us our first lessons in the art of computer programming there—though we didn’t think of it as lessons, just playing around. He would also bring home the reels of old ticker-tape (computer programs!) for us to play with.
While we lived at Proctors Road, in Hobart, Christmas involved Dad cutting down a tree from our forest of a hedge, and us decorating it together. Easter might find an elaborate treasure hunt that Dad had spent days organising, with clues that we could all follow, and everyone finding something.
Dad hosted a local radio show in Hobart, and we kids got to “help” him and be on the radio. When we weren't “helping”, we were exploring the empty [university?] office, spinning on chairs and playing around. It was up on Mount Wellington, and if it snowed, Dad would take us up there to make snow men out of the 2cm of snow that we thought was the last word in snowiness. When there wasn't snow, we would go to the beach, any time of the year, and Dad would make elaborate sand castles, and let us bury him up to his neck.
Dad's music was obviously a huge part of his life, and we were all encouraged to play musical instruments. At various times we played violin, clarinet, trombone, saxophone, piano (sort of), 'cello, recorder and drums. Dad had a vast array of traditional and exotic musical instruments, and we would try to play them. Dad, of course, could play anything. He composed music for children, amongst other works, with a favourite being “Mr Maestro's Kitchen”, and we even featured in one of his compositions, “Kinderspiel”. Mike and Damian were members of the Hobart Boy's Choir, which Dad also composed for.
When circumstances changed and Dad wasn't composing, he would paint and draw. He was every bit as talented as an artist as he was as a musician and composer, and while none of still plays a musical instrument, we all create art in various ways, whether it's portraits, sculpture, cartooning, graphic novels or web-design.
As well as producing wonderful music and art, he also made furniture from time to time, and even built a greenhouse from old reclaimed windows and doors. Rach has a little cupboard he made for her many years ago, and little Alex loves it almost as much as she does.
Dad took us to visit interesting places: old prison ruins in Tasmania, Bruni Island, and in Britain, places like the New Forest, Corfe Castle and Reculver. We would take sketch books to little old churches that he found, and even if we didn't end up drawing anything, we would explore the church and churchyard, reading the tombstones and wondering about the people lying at rest there.
Before ill health set in, he would walk around and about wherever he lived, taking in the character of the area. Dad always knew so much about wherever he was, and was full of interesting facts and always knew the local history of wherever he lived. As young teenagers we may not have been as enthusiastic about history as Dad may have liked, but his enthusiasm still rubbed off on us.
As an unconventional parent, there are other fond memories, such as a ritual burying of a plastic-wrapped chicken that had turned bright green in the fridge. There is also photographic evidence of our, er, unusual hair cuts and outfits during the time that we lived with him as our sole parent. But as it was the 1070s/early '80s I think we got away with it!
What we didn't really get away with was turning up at Heathrow Airport, in January 1983, wearing the shorts, t-shirts and sandals we were wearing when we left Australia. I think it's understandable in the scheme of transferring four young kids around the world that Dad might have forgotten about the change of seasons!
With so many great memories from our childhood with Dad, as well as those formed throughout our adulthood, Dad will be forever remembered, never forgotten.
Damian, Mike, Kate and Rachel.
Most of our memories of Dad revolve around his creativity and artistry. There was a flour tin which Dad had labelled with a cartoon of a daisy hauling itself up with a block and tackle—a self-raising flower. It might have taken a few of us a while to grasp the concept of puns, but we liked the picture. We always had the best fancy dress costumes, hand-made by Mum and Dad, with Dad coming up with innovative ways of adding minute details, such as olde-fashioned shoe buckles on our sensible lace-up shoes. Our birthday parties always featured make-your-own party hats, where we and our friends would get to cut out our hat and decorate it with whatever bits and pieces Dad provided: glitter, stars, dried pasta or tin-foil!
There was the drawing table where he prepared his scores for publication—we were fascinated (and sorely tempted) by the special pens we were not allowed to play with, the sheets of Letraset clefs, crotchets, and minims with gaps where they had been transferred to the page, the scalpels and cow gum and other esoteric paraphernalia. (Dad was cutting and pasting long before it became a keyboard shortcut!)
Dad taught electronic music at the then Tasmanian College of Advanced Education, and would sneak us in on occasional weekends to boggle at the synthesisers with their rows and rows of knobs and patchboards and joystick mysteriously labelled ‘white noise’. He gave us our first lessons in the art of computer programming there—though we didn’t think of it as lessons, just playing around. He would also bring home the reels of old ticker-tape (computer programs!) for us to play with.
While we lived at Proctors Road, in Hobart, Christmas involved Dad cutting down a tree from our forest of a hedge, and us decorating it together. Easter might find an elaborate treasure hunt that Dad had spent days organising, with clues that we could all follow, and everyone finding something.
Dad hosted a local radio show in Hobart, and we kids got to “help” him and be on the radio. When we weren't “helping”, we were exploring the empty [university?] office, spinning on chairs and playing around. It was up on Mount Wellington, and if it snowed, Dad would take us up there to make snow men out of the 2cm of snow that we thought was the last word in snowiness. When there wasn't snow, we would go to the beach, any time of the year, and Dad would make elaborate sand castles, and let us bury him up to his neck.
Dad's music was obviously a huge part of his life, and we were all encouraged to play musical instruments. At various times we played violin, clarinet, trombone, saxophone, piano (sort of), 'cello, recorder and drums. Dad had a vast array of traditional and exotic musical instruments, and we would try to play them. Dad, of course, could play anything. He composed music for children, amongst other works, with a favourite being “Mr Maestro's Kitchen”, and we even featured in one of his compositions, “Kinderspiel”. Mike and Damian were members of the Hobart Boy's Choir, which Dad also composed for.
When circumstances changed and Dad wasn't composing, he would paint and draw. He was every bit as talented as an artist as he was as a musician and composer, and while none of still plays a musical instrument, we all create art in various ways, whether it's portraits, sculpture, cartooning, graphic novels or web-design.
As well as producing wonderful music and art, he also made furniture from time to time, and even built a greenhouse from old reclaimed windows and doors. Rach has a little cupboard he made for her many years ago, and little Alex loves it almost as much as she does.
Dad took us to visit interesting places: old prison ruins in Tasmania, Bruni Island, and in Britain, places like the New Forest, Corfe Castle and Reculver. We would take sketch books to little old churches that he found, and even if we didn't end up drawing anything, we would explore the church and churchyard, reading the tombstones and wondering about the people lying at rest there.
Before ill health set in, he would walk around and about wherever he lived, taking in the character of the area. Dad always knew so much about wherever he was, and was full of interesting facts and always knew the local history of wherever he lived. As young teenagers we may not have been as enthusiastic about history as Dad may have liked, but his enthusiasm still rubbed off on us.
As an unconventional parent, there are other fond memories, such as a ritual burying of a plastic-wrapped chicken that had turned bright green in the fridge. There is also photographic evidence of our, er, unusual hair cuts and outfits during the time that we lived with him as our sole parent. But as it was the 1070s/early '80s I think we got away with it!
What we didn't really get away with was turning up at Heathrow Airport, in January 1983, wearing the shorts, t-shirts and sandals we were wearing when we left Australia. I think it's understandable in the scheme of transferring four young kids around the world that Dad might have forgotten about the change of seasons!
With so many great memories from our childhood with Dad, as well as those formed throughout our adulthood, Dad will be forever remembered, never forgotten.
Damian, Mike, Kate and Rachel.
An amazing father and person, thanks for sharing with us.
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