D is for DAD

He was born on the fourth of March, 1915, a first child into a house that would later be home to another three brothers and a sister and eventually be his own home, with his own family and one which he would leave for the last time on October 13th 2004, having never slept anywhere else, except on his short honeymoon to Scotland and on a few summer holidays that he pampered himself with, after he retired. He was a straight man with no back doors, as they say, so if he thought something about you, then most likely you were going to hear it, regardless of your reaction. I think it probably made a few enemies for him down the years but it probably gave him more friends because he always said what he thought.

By the time he had reached his mid teens, his compulsory education was complete and no longer did he walk the mile and a half or so from home to the little, one-roomed school that still stands but is now a dwelling house. From then on, his learning was from his own mistakes or from the people he met every day, either around the farm, in the neighbourhood or on his travels with his own dad to the various cattle markets and horse fairs that were common place at the time. And when he wasn't working at home or checking out animals, he was just as likely to be found heading off to a social, squatting in a neighbour's house or heading an old leather ball on the football field. And though the memories were in black and white , life was lived in full technicolour.

He was over half way towards his three score and ten when he chose to settle down to married life and within four years his family was complete, though he became a grandfather twice in the late eighties. He liked to drive quickly, loved to knock the car out of gear on a hill and freewheel downwards and there were certain roads that he knew well where he could do so for a couple of miles and as he travelled, he spent most of his time glancing over the hedges at other people's cattle, such was his love for all things bovine. And he knew his animals well, so well in fact that many local farmers, less well versed in the attributes of a good animal, asked him to be their buyer and often seller, such was their respect for his knowledge. Of course it hadn't happened overnight and he had long years of training under the direction of a good master at home. And it wasn't just farmers who made used of his service for every week he bought cattle for a local butcher, whose meat on the shelf then became renowned around the area. The advantage to us was that Harry, the butcher, always gave him a lovely piece of roast for our Sunday dinner as a gift for his help. Often I went with him to the markets and watched as he would deal with others for their stock and also as he would help the auctioneer put the cattle through the ring and probably at quite an early age I realised that this was never going to be a career for me for I could never have reached the heights of knowledge or understanding he had acquired nor did I have the mind of a dealer. Still I marvelled at the way he could manage his animals, only needing the help of a vet in the most extreme cases of illness and usually being able to administer drenches, medicines and the like, out of an old stout bottle and injections from an ancient glass syringe that he kept well oiled inside a little Milk Tray box. And for most of his years, he didn't have the luxury of a cattle crush in which to keep the animals steady, but simply could catch a heifer or bullock by the nose in an old shed and have the dose administered before the animal knew it was caught. Often he would stalk the cow for ages until he would just know the right moment to pounce and then he had taught me to screw its tail up so that it wouldn't try to reverse out of his hold. And it worked almost every time, though once or twice I did see him hanging on for all he was worth as the animal took off around the inside of the shed. There was almost no ailment that he couldn't treat and no ailment he couldn't spot and even when an animal was standing some distance away in a field he could sense when it was unwell. So I only remember about two occasions in my whole life when he lost one of his herd through illness.

Long after dad retired officially, he continued to keep a few animals on the land and when he finally decided to let go of all his stock, he still felt it necessary to care for the tenant's animals and could be seen most days, propping himself against a gate and gazing into a field full of Charolais, Limousin or Hereford cattle as if they were his own. I think he really never let go of his love for cattle for it was the one thing that he had devoted his life to and there is no doubt that he loved his work. Even as he fell into ill health during his last weeks of life and his mind began to wander more than his legs could take him, I have a vivid memory of him telling me to go and feed the couple of animals that were in the sheds around the yard, though no livestock had been there for over ten years.

As I reflect on his life, the life of a man who found peace and contentment in the simple things of life and satisfaction in his work and where he lived, I am also reminded that long after his retirement he found that inner satisfaction and joy which only comes from knowing Jesus as Saviour and in true style was never ashamed of the Lord to whom he had given his last years of human existence. And I think of how Jesus said in John 10 'I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father.' And just as dad knew his cattle well and they knew him when he came to feed them and recognised him not to be a stranger, how much more my heavenly Father knows me and as I read His Word and spend time talking to Him, how much better I get to know Him too. That's why I can pray 'Our Father, who art in heaven' and really mean it.