The story we all loved to hear as kids was the one about dad that would explain why his face was covered in what we as kids saw as millions and millions and millions of tiny dents and scars of which I will tell you all about nearer to the end of my tribute to the greatest dad a daughter could ever have had. His death at the early age of fifty four came as a shock especially when his appointment for the hospital was to have a plaster cast removed only to have him drop dead in the waiting room.
Even though the parting of the ways was sudden the fondest of memories has still held a strong presence in my thoughts over the twenty six years where I was proud to call him my dad. If I could turn the clock back - I would tell him how sorry I was for the times I took him for granted but unfortunately that remorse will be carried to my grave where I know being the good man that he was will be waiting for me at the pearly gates with open arms full of forgiveness.
They say the good die young and that is what has helped to ease the resentment I felt towards the man up above for taking dad so soon.
Why are dads special - why is my dad more special than all other dads, simple because people see the word special in many different ways. So what do I see different in dad that makes him so special.
Dad served 34 years in the army but trouble was brewing up on communist day in Hong Kong where dad was stationed. It was the sound of alarm bells that set the evacuation into motion for the families living outside the barracks to return to the camp immediately.
Eight of us were bundled into the back of a 3 ton army wagon with pillows for protection and ordered to keep our heads down of which we obeyed - the Chinese riot mobs were appearing up from the trenches that lined the road back to the barracks fully armed with allsorts of killing tools - twenty one rocks entered the wagon on the journey back to camp.
The convoy of trucks that followed behind and stopped - now stood burning wrecks.
If a barrage of boulders were hurtled into the back of the wagon - just what kind of state was the front of that vehicle in and that of the driver. There were no medals of bravery awarded to the driver when recognition was delivered by the army superiors for his act of heroism. The reason why was because he should not have been driving at the time, so all the pats on the back went to the wrong man sitting up front.
I often wonder today this day would we all have got out alive if the boot was on the other foot if those drivers did not break the rules.
The result of that fearful day was a truck with no windscreen a driver with no face and eight living bodies that lived to tell the tale - so now you have the ending to my story why those millions and millions and millions of dents and scars, scarred us for life with special memories of dear old dad.