Today, October 9th, is my father’s 35th anniversary. I could tell you what a lovely dad he was, but it is better to, ‘Show, don’t tell.’ So, here he is.
Let me set the scene. 1980’s Dublin. I was a rather boyish, seven- or eight-year-old girl, the fourth in a family of five. My cousin, mum, dad, and dog also shared our home. Number 108. Rather skinny and loud, I wore my hair long, loved to climb trees and could hold my own in a fight. We lived in a time where you went out every day and returned when hungry. There was nothing about me that would make me stand out, no reason for anyone to nod or point in my direction and say, that’s that young McCahill one. Except for one thing, I’d developed an extraordinary love for my shoes.
Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t every pair of shoes I ever owned. It was just one pair. The tatty, scutched, brown pair, with a T-bar, silver buckle, and small well-worn heel which I wore every day that winter. I don’t remember the excitement of going into Clarkes shoe shop to buy them, or the silent battle, as I struggled to keep my foot away from the back of the measuring contraption, hoping the lady, ‘fully trained in foot measuring,’ would be fooled into thinking my foot had finally grown as big as my younger brothers.
What I do remember, is my mother saying months later, ‘Those shoes are for the dump.’
I’m pretty sure there was a sentence or two before this, in which my mother must have said that my shoes were getting small, or tatty and it was time to get a new pair, but I only recall the horror of thinking my companions on many a cycle, tree-climb, race or fight were to be thrown into our smelly, silver tin bin and from there, tossed by the binmen into their truck.
I was distraught, while my mother was somewhat amused, surprised by my love and attachment to a pair of shoes. No amount of forward looking bribing, such as imagining the beautiful new pair awaiting me in the shoe-shop, or the promise of an afternoon out, could stop my tears.
Retreating to my room, I removed my shoes and hugged them tight, sobbing a little more each time I thought of bin-day and the fate that lay in store for them. Mid-way through my mourning, Dad snuck into my room, a finger on his lips. In a quiet, conspiratorial whisper he said, ‘Follow me.’
Clutching my shoes, I immediately tiptoed after him, into ‘the little room’ downstairs. I can’t remember the purpose of the room at the time, perhaps it was their bedroom, all I can tell you is that it had a wooden floor. Not your fancy floors of today, just slats of varnished timber. I looked at him, wondering what the big secret was? The chisel and screwdriver in his hand and pencil behind his ear offered me no clues; they were part of his usual attire.
I watched as he bent over and unscrewed one of the floorboards, using the chisel to gently pull it up. Placing the floorboard to one side, he beckoned me over. I hunkered down and together we stared into the dark hole he’d created.
‘You can put your shoes in there,’ he whispered, ‘they’ll be there forever.’
Without a word I knelt and reverently lowered my shoes into the ground, one on top of the other. We shared a smile as together we pushed the floorboard back into place. It took only a minute for Dad to screw it down. Once it was done, I took his hand and we walked away. At the door I stopped and looked at him, putting my fingers to my lips as he grinned down at me. Passing Mum, moments later, I squeezed his hand, and we shared one final conspiratorial look, before I skipped away.
As far as I know, my shoes remain under the floorboards of 108.
Gone but never forgotten.
20 thoughts on “Gone but never forgotten.”
I absolutely love this story. and your dad. ❤
Haha. Thanks Beth. Me too! Sometimes I wish I’d put it in the book.
save it for your next one )
Magical, just magical…love it
Thanks Theresa. He was a gem.
Such love. What a wonderful story. C
Thank you. Lovely to share him on his anniversary.
What a wonderful picture of your dad! I don’t blog much anymore (getting old is not for wimpy people) so I’m really glad that I happened to catch this post today! I’m richer for it! ♥️
How lovely to catch up Corina. I rarely blog these days either but jump in now and again.
Awesome Tric, that is a great story about your dad, I can just see him. You build a picture for me to see, and I did. Thank you.
That’s lovely to hear. Thank you.
It was great to say and truly mean it as well. How are you and your family doing across the pond Tric? Me and mine are doing great. We are getting ready for Fall and cooler weather. I don’t like the real cold stuff, but I really dislike all of the hot. Happy Holidays to you and yours.
Hey Tric how is the weather across that big pond it is finally cooling off here in Oklahoma so that we can go outside and not burn up. You hang in there and the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays will be here before we know it take care of yourself and Happy holidays to you and yours from me and mine.
Thanks so much. Winter setting in here so it’s a mix of wind and rain and dark nights. But like you looking forward to Christmas.
Amazing Trish. You and your way with words always amuse me. My eyes were swelling up reading it. A true hero of a man to remember.
Thanks a million Rob. He was a v special man. Say hi to Vicky from me.
‘What a wonderful father you had. You were one lucky person indeed.
I know. Very lucky. It was just sad we had him for such a short time. But he left a big mark.
This story is so beautiful. Imagine someone pulls up those floors and finds the shoes. They won’t understand the magnanimous nature of the story! And what it meant to an eight year old girl!