SO MY DAD WAS IN THE AIR FORCE…

  

SO MY DAD WAS IN THE AIR FORCE…

The RAF in his twenties – the SAAF in his  thirties settling down in a caravan in Cape Town...

An apprentice at 16, after quitting his grammar schooling – couldn’t be arsed sitting still at the study - wanting to use his useful hands, his good logic and his maths - an aircraft mechanic, was to become his craft -

And my frustrated nomadic soul, a facsimile of his...

– So he was sent away, to some mad made-up-sounding islands, like Christmas and Easter... We, the kids, only busted a gut – at the beginnings of his endless stories, “When I was in Christmas Island...” - then we’d all fall about, faux snoring at the next and the next and the next... and some of them even started off with, “When I was in Singapore...”

But we had snored at his exciting times. His growing up - and I’d say some bleedin’ terrifying times. And now I’m telling all of my stories – but they’re nothing compared to his...my modern mind imagining, cleaning bogs and vomit from Guinness overfilled tourists - took all of my great, big fat cajones...

...So he went on to retire and came out as a bit of a hippie...I’d say he’d been in that closet for forty to sixty years...

And he took himself off to a French class – and then all ‘an Français' over to Europe - cycled alongside the Tour de France – following them all over the place – piecing together bits of a boyhood dream...

Was the year the Tour started in Dublin – he sailed on over, to pay me a visit, in my wild-wild west in Clare – on the bike it only took a day and a half - sure Jayzuz, me, I'd only just be getting in there now - cycling since July, nineteen ninety eight...

Well he did not recognise me - the cliché of fancy-free...

And he floated about light as feather – only a pannier bag weighted him down...he must’ve left his other baggage, way back in Cape Town.

And with only a year and a half of ocean between us – I’d say we’d not seen each other for longer......

And the man, straight-up-and-down, un-buttoned his inner-hippie – recounting an unexpected tale - from the last hostel he’d stayed in: “I was chatting to these blokes in the common room - and they were so funny, and I think they’d all been smoking their ‘socks.’... ”

...This coming from Mr military regulation - all I remembered, were  too many short, volatile fuses - and I, the little shit, just kept on lighting them...

And it took too long for me to see - that the aircraft mechanic's fuses, had been burned down long before I even came along...

...For way back when, he was sent, to God knows where - God knows, at what un-Godly hour – to trawl through all of the plane crash sites – to pick through the bits of the bits - for miles about, they’d be strewn...

And his innocent, brand new fuses were lit - slowly burning, to non existent - for when he raised the pieces of engine - the wings – and the fuselage ... below, there were the leftovers  - of the passengers - and of the pilots...

His sweet and innocent wellied feet - unwittingly sunk, into the remains -

of their sickeningly-soft - and wasted human minds...

And he would gather up all of the empty shoes – and the shoes...

with nothing but feet left in them...

And now I know, what I didn’t know then... there was no more left to any of his fuses - for they had been left to smoulder - unadulteratedly left unattended....

For way back then, there was no such thing, as foolish boyish crying –

But the aircraft mechanic had always suffered, from a Stiff Upper Lip Disorder...