Filling a Dad-shaped hole

 

Len Gaudion

I miss my Dad. He died aged 71, not much older than I am now, and would have been in his 90's if he had lived. Len Gaudion was a tomato grower by instinct and upbringing. I say instinct because he could make anything grow! If he tossed some old lettuce seeds onto a patch of waste ground, they would sprout into giant greens. His nemesis was ‘fusarium wilt’ which as a child I could not understand, but when I heard him telling my mother about it in hushed tones across the tea table, I knew we were in big trouble. I used to walk carefully and quietly between the rows of toms, hoping that the dreaded wilt would not leap out and savage me like Dad warned it would do to the crop.

My father was such a hard worker. In those days, the soil in Guernsey greenhouses had to be steam sterilised every year in October or November, and he was a stoker for the coal-fired steam boilers. Not only did he work all night digging up the soil in huge glass houses, burying and reburying the grids needed to steam the ground, in appalling heat caused by the rushing vapour from the burner, but he also had to feed the voracious appetite of the beast, shovelling vast amounts of coal to keep the furnace burning. The rest of the year he lived for the toms, working 16–18-hour days to keep food on the table. And still he was my Dad and had a bit of time for us kids – but not a lot! My special memories are few, but include amazing times fishing together with him from the sea-wall on the island's west coast.

On this Fathers’ Day I miss him so much. I have such respect now for what he sacrificed for us, and love his sense of humour and physical strength, but I also have some regrets. I am sad that I did not listen to him enough, and that I did not ask him the questions I wish I could now. How did you and Mum meet? What happened to you after you were evacuated from Guernsey with all the children in your school year at the start of the German Occupation? How did your foster families treat you – and why did you have so many of them? If you had your time again, Dad, what would you have done differently?

But I can’t ask him any of that. Why didn’t I take the opportunity years ago? Now I am a father and a grandfather, and I want my heirs to know my story. But I have regrets about the Dad-shaped hole I have in my memory. If you still have your father, use today as an opportunity to sit and listen to his story. And ask your questions now before it’s too late. I wish I could hug Len Gaudion one more time today, perhaps even inhale that strong odour of tomatoes, sweat and aftershave. If you can still do that – pandemic rules permitting, then do it while you can.

If you didn’t have the privilege of having a really good father like mine, and are disappointed at the experience of being parented by yours, then maybe today is a chance to climb up onto the knee of your loving heavenly Father, and call him ‘Abba’ which means ‘Daddy’. There is not one tiny bit of abusive intent in his heart, nor anything that makes or loves a lie. In the purity of that relationship there is healing for us all this Fathers’ Day.