A dad

My dad is growing older.
Days flash by and with each interaction I am amazed at how little I know of him. I want to write the small nuggets of knowing down. Less I forget and they are suddenly washed away with time or each new understanding of him.

My dad is now 53. He was born in 1957. The year that saw Russia launch the first artificial satellites in to space, Britain test it's first hydrogen bomb, Elvis buy 'Graceland', Liverpool open the doors to The Cavern, and the Cinema show it's first viewing of my favourite film 12 Angry Men.

Paul Byrom, my dad, was second child to Rose Marie and Norman Byrom. He was born at home, on a small street in Padiham Lancashire. He shared a bed with his 3 brothers, Stephen, Mark and David. Paul was the lively, cheeky brother - and according to my late Nan, the most mischievous. A genetic expression that has successfully passed down the line and rests decidedly with my own son Seamus.

Dad's childhood mischiefs involved: shooting rats down 'Mongoli Swamp', climbing over the fat pipe, riding cows in the fields, jumping off bridges onto the back of the coal train, making 'trolleys' to race down the streets, sliding down Nana's bannister (the marks from such larks still remain), and getting chased by Nana and her fore-biding scolls!

Along with fun and antics, dad's life has had it's fair share of trauma. His dad died when he was ten years old leaving Nana with four boys to raise alone. Anecdotes of which have been shared through a disparate array of folk - some family or friends, some half-known colleagues at work, and sometimes complete strangers. It was only the other day, following a stressful meeting at work, that a midwife came up to me (our paths have never crossed before) and shared with me that she went to school with Dad and his brothers. She noted how she remembered seeing them lined-up, all neat and well-behaved in church. She passed on her memory and now it rests in mine colouring my image of this man, my father.

Other stories detail how dad was an absolute marvel. He used to make 'trolleys' (go-carts) with his friends using old pram wheels. Nothing particularly novel about that. Until you decide to make a bob or two helping your neighbours to wheel their suitcases (pre-pull along) to the bus stop so they can go on holiday.

Dad was also an impressive sports star. His specific talents were in, well, everything. He was the best in the county at neat diving, gymnastics, and running. In long jump he actually cleared the pit with his impressive 21ft 6.5inch jump when he was just thirteen years old. A jump he made in plimpsoles with holes in their bottoms. His school-boy achievements were so vast that his name still resides on the trophy my brother held during his sporting streak at the same school.

Unfortunately for dad, poverty got in the way of sporting progression. He was good a sport at a time with no scholarships or National programmes to spot gifted sports stars at schools. Children could leave school at fourteen. Dad left when he could. Leaving with one solitary Certificate of Secondary Education (appalls me to write it) in Art of all things. Perhaps it's from dad that I get my creative flare. I've certainly got his eyes, his nose, his legs, and his most horrendous temper - but I am not going to go into that here.

My dad, and his brothers, have built their life from the extreme raptures of torturous poverty and heart-breaking family turmoil. My Nana, their mother, all four foot ten of her, gave those boys her life as a platform to neat-dive into success. They are all hard-working, strong yet sensitive, loving men. It is all down to her, that wonderful women. The woman who raised them alone, cleaned four pairs of shoes every night so they shone (despite them having holes in their soles). The women who worked four jobs just to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. The woman who went to bed every night on her own and awoke with the daily task of sorting four children out. I can barely manage the morning slog with just one boy to sort.

Marrying Sheena Byrom, my mother has been one of dad's luckiest moments. He knows it. He loves her. Always has since the age of fourteen. That's some impressive loving. It's something special to see a man, your dad, love your mother so intensely. It fills me with pride. I remember he took me on holiday to cheer me following a pretty saddening relationship break-up. Apart from the holiday being beyond brilliant I was able to see my father as a loving husband, a loving husband to Sheena. He talked of her with such passion, such deep commitment it was almost overwhelming. It was too much for dad, as he talked about his utter love for Mum his eyes would fill and I knew how much he felt. Amazing. What a guy.

Thoughts of Dad haven't always been so sunny but I suppose the aged memories of upset, anger and frustration become more mellow and fade, as time goes by. I do remember Dad shouting. Christ dad can shout. Thank-fully this dreadful Byrom trait has, like ancient memories, softened with age. He is now a stunning Grand-dad to my boy. Senstitive, strong, playful and so giving of his time. He has stepped in, so graciously as Seamus' own dad stepped out. For that I will be eternally grateful.

He is a brilliant man. There's nothing more can be said for someone who manages to cycle Land's end to John O'Groats (over 900 miles) in twelve days at the age of 53. But then me being me, I suppose there is. My dad could get better if he stopped reading the Daily Mail and lost his temper. It's my duty to help him try.

(and no, unfortunately, Dad didn't manage the bike ride on that)