Dad to me and my sister. Friend to a great many. A happy and generous man, he lived his life fully and well. He will be missed. To all those who knew him, please raise a glass in his memory and wish him well on his next adventure.
I describe my earliest memory of Dad in Soul of a Nomad:
I delighted in the scratchiness of his wool jacket and trousers. His uniform, I was told. He wore a black hat with a silver badge on the front. A beret, I was told. I was allowed to put it on my head, but it was heavy. Sometimes he wrapped cloth strips around his lower trouser legs and ankle-high boots. Putties, I was told. I was not allowed to unroll and play with the putties but it was tempting. Sometimes he wore a wide brown leather belt around his waist with a narrower strap that crossed his chest and went over his shoulder. A Sam Browne, I was told. This smelled of the polish Dad rubbed into it. The leather shone and so did the bright brass buckles. I was not to get my finger prints on any part of this fascinating piece of attire. Dad had a special Dad smell when he came home wearing his uniform. From driving in tanks, I was told.
“Tanks?” I asked.
“Time for bed. We’ll talk about tanks another day,” Dad said.