I know, because I’ve been told, that when I was little, my dad commuted from Birmingham to Stratford Upon Avon, up early and back late. In spite of this, I have many childhood memories of him. Perhaps because he wasn’t the primary care-giver, he took care to spend as much time as he could with my sister and I in the evenings and on weekends?
It was Dad who read to me in the evenings before I went to sleep, often traditional picture books, but also poetry. A singer (more about that later), he has a lovely speaking voice too, deep and resonant. From Spike Milligan’s “Silly Old Baboon” to Tennyson’s “Lady of Shallot”, my dad brought the English language to life, with his natural instinct for both the comic and the dramatic. Is it any wonder I’m a writer? He instilled in me a life-long love of words.
It wasn’t all high-brow, though. Some of my earliest memories are of curling up on the couch with Dad to watch Doctor Who, the theme music sending delicious waves of fear through my little body. We also favoured Play Away and Champion the Wonder Horse for weekend viewing, and, of course, Top of the Pops. Dad and I were (and still are) fans of Kate Bush, our favourite tune, “The Man with the Child in His Eyes”.
As long as I can remember my dad has sung in choirs, both secular and spiritual. In the early days in the UK, I went with him to synagogue every Saturday, where he would sing in the Singers’ Hill Congregation choir. I loved the wrought iron choir stalls, where I would play (very quietly!) with the conductor’s children, to the sonorous and solemn accompaniment of the choir. At home, Dad taught himself to play guitar and our birthday parties always involved a singalong (including another joint favourite, "Mull of Kintyre"). Again, I feel it’s no surprise that one of the great joys in my life is singing with Menagerie Choir.
Part 1: The practical joke
My dad is a great lover of the practical joke, and will go to any lengths to pull off a gag, including roping in his offspring. He once managed to fool my mum into believing that some long-lost overseas relatives were coming on an impromptu, unexpected and highly inconvenient visit, the day before we were due to travel overseas to see my grandparents. This involved getting my sister to write a spoof telephone message. He felt her hand-writing would make the missive more plausible. It did.
Part 2: Poker face
Dad has an excellent poker face, which aids in the execution pranks such as the one outlined above. Sometimes mum’s friends will approach her wearing confused expressions. “Leon said, <insert outlandish statement>,” they will say. “He was JOKING,” Mum will reply. “Are you sure?” they will respond. “He looked serious!”
The poker face means that even members of Dad's immediate family can't always tell whether he's spinning fiction or fact... and sometimes he also uses it for dramatic effect. When I was in year 12, he came to fetch me from Jewish youth group one evening and gravely explained that my ball date had arrived a week early (tuxedo-clad, corsage in hand) and was sitting in the kitchen eating scrambled eggs on toast with my mum, awaiting my return. At first I was horrified at the thought of the unscheduled, inevitably awkward evening awaiting me. Then I sharpened my gaze. “You’re joking aren’t you,” I said sternly. “I only wish I was,” he replied as his sombre expression began to twitch with ill-concealed glee.
Part 3: The obscure joke
Dad also takes pleasure in the less obvious moments of comedy. One day he sang me a series of three notes and then looked at me quizzically. “What?” I asked, confused. He sang them again and looked at me meaningfully. I frowned and then understanding dawned. “The Sydney Underground? Before an announcement?” He burst into laughter. “Yes!”
Part 4: The joke that never dies
My dad will work a joke indefinitely.
Case 1: Oss we go
As long as I can remember, whenever we are heading off somewhere, my dad has said brightly, “Oss we go!” I only discovered relatively recently that this is a reference to the fact that when I was small I couldn’t make the sound “f”, so fox became sox and off became oss. I’d estimate this saying is around 40 years old and still going strong.
Case 2: Leah Bowling
One day, in the early 90s, my dad asked me where I was going. I replied, “With Leah, bowling.” For years he would crack jokes about Leah Bowling, asking if she was the daughter of ABC reporter Mark Bowling and so on. Over 25 years later, my dad still refers to Leah as “Leah Bowling”.
Example 1:
Nina is driving along Kwinana Freeway, heading into town. Radio is on, ABC news theme plays.
Radio announcer: This is ABC news. Good afternoon, I’m Eleanor Hall.
Nina: Good afternoon, Eleanor.
Example 2:
Nina and friend are heading to a Fringe event. En route they meet an elderly couple who ask them for directions to a venue. Nina and friend give directions and continue on way, only to become aware that couple are not going the right way. Nina stands on a wall and waves her arms flamboyantly, in the manner of an aircraft marshaller, in order to capture the couple’s attention (and everyone else’s within a 50 metre radius). Friend looks embarrassed. Nina is triumphant when she successfully redirects the couple, utilising more large-scale gestures.
Example 3:
Nina is with a group of dance students, at a workshop in Sydney. It is morning tea time and she is fossicking in her bag for a packet of Granita biscuits that seem to have, unaccountably, disappeared. When she finally locates them, she holds them aloft and sings, “Granitaaaa. I just met a girl called Granitaaaaa,” to the tune of “Maria” from Westside Story. Her students look bemused.
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As I make my way through what I suppose must be middle age, one thing is certain. I am turning into my father. These habits, mannerisms, gestures, quirks… it’s like little bits of my dad keep bursting out of me.
As well as that tendency towards eccentricity and slightly off-beat sense of humour, and love of words and music, I also have my father’s compulsion for fresh air and for “stretching the legs”… even our gait is similar. We share the same quick temper, but also the same inability to bear a grudge. We both feel a strong sense of obligation to family, friends and commitments, and suffer the same pangs of guilt if we feel we've not met those obligations.
People often tell me that my dad is a wonderful man. I know this to be true and feel incredibly grateful that he is my father. He is gentle, kind and generous. He is a loving grandfather and father, and was a loyal and caring son and nephew (especially to our Auntie Florrie, who died earlier this year, aged 102). For decades he volunteered his time to run the synagogue services at the Jewish old age home in Perth, where the combination of his considerate and compassionate nature, his courteous and personable manner, and, of course, his beautiful singing made him a favourite with the residents.
I hope I’m like my dad in less tangible ways too.
Happy birthday Fa xxx