How best to access our memories when so much time has passed since the subject of our thoughts and feelings departed this life?
Music, always works for me so here’s my portal as I attempt to write my ‘Dear John’ letter to my dad.
It’s not a traditional ‘Dear John’ letter, by which I mean the commonly used phrase when attempting to inform someone that our feelings for them have changed irreconcilably to the point when we feel we have no choice but to move on.
It’s a ‘Dear John’ because today is the 41st anniversary of his death and, despite being called ‘Tony’ by everyone who knew him, his real name was John Anthony Mason, born in a room above the Lamb pub in Axbridge, Somerset, March 20th 1922, died, in another room in our family home, November 11th 1979.
Of course, it’s not really a Dear John letter either, it’s a dear Dad, but I liked the slight play on words so if you don’t mind, I’ll stick with that as the title? Besides, a Dear John is often along the lines of
“It’s not about you, it’s me”
But this is about both of us, although obviously I’m not expecting a reply anytime soon and as an atheist, I’m also not expecting to be reunited in the ‘afterlife’ either although in matters such as this, emotions that penetrate our very being so deeply, I sometimes wish I could find some proof that such a place exists. There isn’t any of course, so I’ll settle for listening to the music he loved so much, as I type this letter, a bit of Glen Miller with a cup of tea will do me nicely.
As I sip my tea, the 11am signal for a two-minute silence of remembrance has just sounded so I’ll pause and think more intently about him and his wartime friends and comrades who sacrificed so much for the rest of us.
Dear Dad,
Here we are again, remembrance day, November 11th, after all this time, still my ‘official’ saddest day of the year. Obviously, I’m not as devasted as I was 41 years ago, but nonetheless, as much as time is a healer, there are certain things some of us will never forget.
Things we should not ever forget, cannot forget. Do not in fact, wish to forget.
You will always be my dad, I will always be your son.
The passing of time changes things, but sadly, some things will never be ‘alright’, they just start to feel different, as do our responses to them.
My friend Billy kindly just colorized this photo of you and you crew, I’m not sure if you ever saw it, I only discovered it a while ago and I have to say, it makes me immensely proud.
That’s your ‘ship’ a Vickers Wellington Mk 3 and there you are, third from right, looking, well looking like exactly what you and all of your generation were and will always be, Heroes.
A little research tells me this was taken shortly before a mission ‘somewhere’ over occupied Europe in 1942 as you and your crew prepared to take-off from Middleton St George airfield. You were 20 years old, that’s 32 years younger than I am now, in fact you’re younger in this photo than two of Ruth’s sons, the grandsons you were sadly destined to never know.
They’re all good boys as is our darling Ellie, their sister and of course my own daughter, Tabitha Honey Mason. You would adore them all, as they would you.
Incidentally, Ruth has a wonderful man in her life who also served in the RAF for over 25 years, his job was, what I recall you once referred to as a ‘snowdrop’? He loves her very much and she him, so she’s safe and happy with him, I’m sure you’d be delighted to know.
I showed Tabitha this photo yesterday, she thinks you and I look remarkably similar, I think she’s a ringer for you too, albeit somewhat prettier, if you don’t mind me saying so?
I do tell her about you often, she’s seen the old photographs of our family holidays in the 70’s, her favourite is one of you taken on a beach in Portugal one summer, swigging from a bottle of local beer, fag in hand smiling and looking very ‘happy’ indeed. I like that photo too, even though I neither drink nor smoke these days but that’s another story altogether and I guess I take some solace that you weren’t around to witness by own horrible journey to the point where the boozing had to stop.
As a RAF pilot who fought for his country, the fact that you eventually passed-away on Sunday 11th November, Remembrance Sunday, always reminds me to acknowledge both the bravery and tragedy that distinguish those years, when you and your mates were still so very young, so many of them, never to grow old. That you were, the son of a Jew, fighting the Nazis, adds even more to the story, not that I ever recall you making your efforts sound like anything more than just a ‘job’ that had to be done.
“When you go home, tell them of us and say, for your tomorrow, we gave our today”
That’s just made me cry dad, just typing that quote, I was wondering at what point in this letter the tears would come, after all these years, I’m pleased they are still there when I think of you. The memories have grown so very faint, but the tears tell me, they will never disappear completely.
I wonder what you would make of the world today? One thing I’m sure you’d be furious about is the price of a pint! 32 pence, last time you had one in 1979, I’ve actually had to ‘google’ it (oh yeah, the internet, don’t worry about it, it’s way too complicated to explain right now) apparently, it’s nearly £4 a pint these days, trust me you really don’t want to know the price of 20 Benson and Hedges.
One vivid memory I still cherish, is in that last summer of your life, just as I turned 11, you and Grandad Reg, took me over to the bowling-club in the park where you occasionally worked behind the bar. After a brief discussion with him you both decided I was old enough to have a half a pint of shandy and sit at the end of the bar with all your friends. Who says the 70’s were all bad eh?
I can’t even begin to explain how grown-up that made me feel, despite being the youngest ‘man’ in there by at least 40 years!! Tragically it was the first and last time, as memory serves it was just a few weeks before, well you know, November 11th, 1979.
They were proud men, your friends, some of them veterans of the first world war, many of the same war you fought in, all of them seemingly called Jack, Harry, or Arthur and all of them, without exception offering to shake my hand and tell me how often you’d talk about Mum, Ruth and I and how proud you were of us. What I’d done, considering the company we were in that day, to merit you feeling proud of me, was completely unfathomable at the time, it is only when I tell Tabitha every day that I am proud of her, that I understand what you meant, like father like son, it would seem. If you were not around long enough to teach me anything else apart from that and to always, ALWAYS, fight Nazis, then you taught me well dad and I’m eternally grateful.
Now one thing I’m fairly sure that would infuriate you these days is the state of your beloved Lancashire Cricket Club. Your own father, John Joseph Mason, the grandad I sadly never knew, Blackburn born and bred as he was, would be even more distressed to know they’ve not won much silverware this century. I regret to inform you that it’s possible neither of you would recognize the game these days, it’s all multi-colored uniforms, strange colored cricket balls and varying formats of matches, some of which only have 20 overs per side! How is anyone supposed to snooze through that? I say this because I’m not sure exactly how much cricket you and grandad Reg, actually watched on the ‘telly on a Sunday afternoon upstairs after one of mums roast dinners. As I recall you and he pretty much napped through the afternoons play, maybe the numerous cans of Ind Coop stout Reg kept in his ‘grandad flat’ had something to do with it?
I do however, vividly remember you taking me to watch Lancashire vs Somerset when I was about seven or eight years old, the great Clive Lloyd was captaining Lancashire and I don’t think I’d ever seen such a giant of a man, his bat was bigger than I was at the time! If memory serves, he dispatched a few deliveries clean out of the ground that day, something I seem to recall you celebrating with perhaps a pint too many, as there was a distinctly wobbly walk home that evening!
I wish I had more memories dad, of course I do, there are some but they seem to come and go these days, I sometimes struggle to remember what direction I’m supposed to be walking in when I’m out with the dog!
I know Ruth has some old super8 film transferred onto DVD somewhere, I need to watch that again one day, I’ll make sure Tabitha is with me. You of course wouldn’t know what a DVD is let alone the fact that people actually do something called ‘streaming’ these days. I won’t bore you with all that, suffice to say, just like cricket, life has changed a lot. For the most part, in a good way, you’d certainly have lived longer due to medical progress that’s for sure, but the fact that everything is so instant these days has robbed us of some of the magic that having to ‘wait’ for things once gave us. There you go, I sound like an old man already, it’s ironic that I’m feeling the loss of you today when you were a mere 5 years older than I am now. I don’t feel old though, maybe that’s down to a new wife and all the sea air? I do wish that you had grown truly old, that things had been different but that’s life sometimes eh? I’m going to try and stick around for as long as possible; I’d hate for Tabitha to have to write something like this one day. She’s already a year older than I was when you died.
And what of Mum? The one true love of your life as you were for her too, despite knocking up 5 marriages between the pair of you!
I think this is where you would find life so very difficult these days for I’m afraid to tell you she has been so unwell for many years, her multiple-sclerosis while never completely ravaging her body, made everything so very difficult for her and now she has been in a care home for a long time, also having to contend with dementia these past few years as well.
What I can tell you is that your wonderful daughter Ruth, has been a constant in her life throughout everything, never moving too far away and always doing her very best to ensure Mum has had the best possible care, she puts me to shame I’m afraid dad, I should have done much more for her over the years, but I am going to visit her very soon and even though she won’t understand, I’ll give her a kiss from you when I see her. I’m on the other side of the county but it’s really no excuse to not visit more often. We’re all currently living through a ‘lockdown’ due to something called Covid19, but just like the internet and streaming and something called Brexit, I won’t bore you with all that, trust me you really don’t want to know.
I live with my new wife, Becky in Margate these days, you’d like her a lot, she and I are good team, and we are incredibly happy together Tabitha absolutely adores her too.
If I’m wrong and there is some sort of ‘afterlife’ if you ever bump into a fella called Alan Tucker, well that’s Becky’s dad, so perhaps the two of you might have some sort of celestial pint together, apparently he wasn’t much of a drinker though, so go easy on him please.
After 35 years in London, I much prefer walking along the beach here each morning compared to the noise and stress of the city, Tabitha loves it here too so while it’s not a perfect scenario with her still in London during the week, I’ve figured out a way to see her regularly even during weekdays and she loves coming here on weekends, she told me she feels like she’s on holiday when she comes to visit and to be fair, Becky and I spoil her rotten when she’s with us anyway, so while not ‘perfect’, it’s certainly not a bad life for her either.
I’m still struggling along with my musical endeavors, I’m not sure what you’d make of Hightown Pirates, I’d like to think you’d enjoy some of what I write. As I sit here typing, listening to the sounds you once danced to during the war, the records I remember you playing on the mid-70’s stereo unit concealed in a half a tree, sorry ‘fashionable’ wooden sideboard thing, It’s obvious to me where I got my love of the ‘big-band’ sound from. So, I’m afraid you’ll have to take some of the blame for the ridiculous number of musicians I employ to try and create the wall of sound that is our signature sound. I’ll keep on plugging away with the band dad, despite the frustrations, it ultimately makes me happy and I’m think I’m right in saying, it makes a few others happy too, so it’s worth the struggle.
Well, I think that’s about it from me for now, today is not about me, it’s about you and your generation, there are so few of them left these days, you may well have grown older than many of them, but I’ll always regret the fact you never had a few more years on this planet, I never did get to buy you a pint in return for that shandy with grandad.
Love you, always and forever
Your son.
Simon x
Ps. I once saw you having a crafty fag in the high street when your doctor had told you to stop smoking immediately after you’d had a minor heart-attack. I didn’t tell mum or Ruth, so if you have been ‘watching over me’ in the ‘afterlife’, then perhaps you might keep quiet about some of my indiscretions over the years too if/when mum joins you. Even though I don’t believe in heaven, I think mum still does.
Simon Mason 