Tribute to my dad
Family is his first love, music a close second.
My father is a man of few words. Music is his language, instead.
I think of him in sounds: snippets of banjo, practicing trombone, and whistling while cycling.
When he wasn’t playing, he’d be tapping his foot to the beat of whatever music was on. Always loud and louder still when mum was out.
The soundtrack of my youth was a mish-mash of Dixieland jazz, the Beatles, and Queen until marching bands stole his heart. Thankfully I moved out by then.
My dad, tall and musical, always there.
I don’t remember my father dispensing much advice growing up. Like many men of his generation, he would leave that to my mum.
But he was there for us, reliable, safe - always delighted to see his children, and now ours.
Volunteering for most of his life, he was happy to serve the public at work and outside of it. I recall late meetings at home, people calling in broken Dutch, and piles of paperwork everywhere. He even learned to speak Arabic to ease communication with clients.
My dad, reliable, helpful, always there.
My father is a prolific reader; getting through books at the speed of lighting.
