Another Happy Father’s Day
Facebook was running one of their status races, whereby someone spreads a suggestion rather like a Chinese Whisper for people to change their status or their profile picture. There are campaigns for breast cancer with the infamous “bra colour” one that had all Facebooker’s confused until some ‘friend’ let them into the secret. At one point, everyone was asked to change the profile picture to a favourite childhood cartoon to highlight the plight of abused children.
This week it was obviously about fathers. Everyone was asked to get a photo of their fabulous Dad on their profile page. As it happened, I decided I didn’t want to take part. I was grieving enough. This weekend is always hard for me, especially when I am feeling a little down in the dumps anyway.
I spoke to my mum about it, and just said it was one of those things that reminded me once more, as if I needed it, that he was no longer here and I couldn’t talk to him about the very important things going on in my life.
But then I changed my mind. I decided that I wouldn’t put a photo of him up there, mainly because I didn’t want to alarm my siblings; suddenly seeing their Dad smiling out at them without warning. So I chose four pictures from the internet; four things that he loved, that was something to do with him, made a jpeg and posted that instead.
Here is one of the good things about Facebook. I received a couple of comments and a few “likes”. A friend of mine from home who lost her father a couple of years after mine said it reminded her of the times that both of our Dad’s were transporting us around with our ridiculously large musical instruments in the back of their cars. But the poor girl. She probably had to endure the most painful of situations. Her father didn’t die naturally. He was murdered in the most bizarre and seemingly motiveless attack.
Another friend, my brother’s ex-partner, said how much she remembered my Dad and liked the idea of making up this little montage of mine.
Another shared her bereavement with me. We shared our losses together.
And then my sister decided to join in. Only she did post a photo of my Dad; a good one at that. It was one from later in his life and probably the disease was already attacking him. Only we didn’t know.
For some reason, I found the photo just after I parked the car in the supermarket car park, and I just sat there for a while, crying and wishing.
Silly really – I mean it has been some time now, and I really ought to be over this silliness about Father’s Day.
In some ways it is extremely comforting to know that other people are feeling the same sense of loss. It is a healthy reminder that you are not alone and that others grieve too. It helps to stop one being too morose and egotistical to know that others are feeling the same way.
And we can all just stop for a minute, grieve for a moment and then look more positively at the entire situation of grief and embrace the very fact that we are all feeling like this is because we had a wonderful Dad and a wonderful relationship in the first place.
I suppose that is the biggest thing about separation. If the relationship wasn’t that important the loss would be easier to cope with.
Anyway, all of this made me think about the millions of people who have lost their fathers but also those that are suffering this crippling grief in the immediacy of the weekend.
My heart, thoughts and understanding goes out to them all.
And that made me think about two specific fathers who have died this weekend.
The first died on Saturday; the very brilliant, incredibly talented Clarence Clemons, saxophonist of the East Street Band who died of a stroke at the age of 69.
The story of his meeting with Bruce Springsteen is classic. Apparently, he decided to go from one venue where he was performing to another during his break so that he could go and listen to the main man. The night was frightful and as he opened the door, the thing ripped away from its hinges and he was silhouetted in the doorway; this huge man, looking down all menacing on the band on the stage. Apparently, he called out to Bruce that he wanted to play in his band. The “Boss” responded by saying “Sure, you do anything you want!”
I watched him quite closely on stage a couple of years ago and delighted in the passion that you could see in every movement of his hands, in every eager blow of breath as he cascaded the most brilliant of tones from his beloved musical instrument.
The Big Man was everything that his nickname suggested; a big, big man.
Bruce said the loss of Clarence was “immeasurable”.
Here is a quote from him from yesterday.
"Clarence lived a wonderful life. He carried within him a love of people that made them love him. He created a wondrous and extended family. He loved the saxophone, loved our fans and gave everything he had every night he stepped on stage. His loss is immeasurable and we are honored and thankful to have known him and had the opportunity to stand beside him for nearly forty years. He was my great friend, my partner and with Clarence at my side, my band and I were able to tell a story far deeper than those simply contained in our music. His life, his memory, and his love will live on in that story and in our band."
What a fitting tribute; nothing more to add, other than I hope his sons and the rest of his family will be able to celebrate his life, his passion and realise what an incredibly Big Man he was.
The other death was Brian Haw; not necessarily a household name. Not famed for his musical talents or acting ability. Brian Haw was just an ordinary man who felt so passionate about love, peace and justice – for all, that he had to do something out of the ordinary.
For ten years, despite parliamentary legislation, despite the mayor of London trying to move him on, despite the Met trying to destroy his actions, despite the council trying to get eviction orders, this man camped outside our symbol of democracy to protest against the inhumanities of the Iraq and Afghanistan.
People probably thought the man was a little insane, but passion sometimes does that. Sometimes passion is far from rational but it is also so vital that you cannot turn your back on it.
This man gave up his life for something that he felt he needed to do, he had to do, and one has to respect him for the immense sacrifice that he made.
Did he make a difference? Well, we still went into the stupid wars but his very presence reminded every visitor, every worker, every MP in the building that there was public abhorrence at their behaviour; at the wrongness of these wars.
But he didn’t stop there. Once there, he embraced other campaigns. He fought against the muslim phobia that has crept into our society. He welcomed fellow actions from the Sri Lankan consortium who also camped out on Parliament Square.
He kept that megaphone firmly in tune, just as Clarence played his saxophone.
He was a passionate man.
I do hope that some organisation, perhaps Amnesty or a Peace Organisation will consider campaigning for a permanent reminder of his efforts to be placed in front of the Houses of Parliament as a gentle reminder to all those within that the man on the street is the real democratic voice of the country. The Little Man is the conscience that they sometimes wilfully ignore.
This Little Man did his bit. I rather like the idea of a bronze statue being placed next to Winston Churchill on those hallowed greens.
(I have just found this wonderful obituary from Tony Benn - http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2011/jun/20/brian-haw-death-iraq-war-protester?INTCMP=SRCH)
So in celebration of fathers, in celebration of passion, here is to the many men throughout the world who have made a difference to one or many.
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