Hello, I’m back,
I haven’t written a newsletter for a while, in fact, until the last week I hadn’t written at all for a few months. On the 18th January 2022, the
most important man in our family passed away. David John Hawkes, our dad, and I think most importantly to him in his later years, Gramps, and great Gramps.
I’m going to tell you a little about him, and share some of my favourite photographs. I’ll do another news letter over the weekend, and I promise that that will be back on subject, but for now, let me tell you about my lovely dad.
Dad loved his family, children, dogs, telling stories and bad dad jokes, music, dancing (in his younger days), a bit of karaoke, and Spain. And he was much loved in return. He had old fashioned values, good manners, and a positive outlook for the best part. Although, I should mention he did predict that Russia was going to do something terrible. An avid newspaper reader, and follower of news, he spoke at length about
his concern only the week before he went into hospital. He read reports about Russian military planes being escorted out of British air space, of submarines supposedly off course off the coast of Scotland, and wagging a finger at me said, “When Russia are in the news this much something bad is going to happen. You see if it doesn’t.” He was right.
Although during that last month we knew he didn’t have long to live. With covid restrictions he was only allowed one visitor in hospital, me, and knowing he didn’t have long, he wanted to come home. When he did, we were told he might have up to three months, as it turned out we 
only had this wonderful man who was the centre of all things family for three more days. To say we were devastated is an understatement, but logic tells us that for him it was a much better outcome and he was ready to go. I don’t dwell on those last few days, instead I think about the laughter, the hugs, and the comfort that just knowing you had him brought. But now we don’t. Now we rely on the wonderful memories we have, and I have to say it is almost impossible to have any sort of conversation about him without a smile, or more
likely a laugh. Dad told a good story, and he had many, some we’d heard many times, but you never minded, because for the best part, they were either amusing, interesting, or shocking. Sometimes all three.
Born in 1938, dad’s family were not well off. Before the war his parents and the five children lived in three rooms in a Victorian house near the centre of town. When the bombing of Bristol began, they would have to run to the bomb shelter. With the iconic Bristol Suspension Bridge in sight, my grandfather would load his bicycle with the younger kids and get them to the shelter as 
quickly as possible. My dad, used to the search lights filling the night sky, would be balanced on the handlebars. One night he decided to help, shining their torch at the shadows of the planes overhead. As you can imagine this cost him a severe slap around the ear and he didn’t do it again. For the latter part of the war he was evacuated to Weymouth. He loved it there, and tucked under a floorboard in the loft of the house is a note with the names of the group of evacuees and the date, with the message they were evacuees from Bristol. He often wondered if anyone had found it.
After the war the family moved into one of the newly built council houses, which seemed like a luxury, but money was still tight. Dad can
remember his shoes being pawned until payday when they were retrieved in time for church on a Sunday, before the process started all over again. The tales of the wooden clogs when one of us needed a new pair of shoes was aired on many occasions. While her children were still young, my lovely grandmother spent a year in hospital with TB, and they had to go to a children’s home. Although my grandad visited every week if he could, my dad and his siblings agree it was the worst of times. Their guardians, in his words, were ‘cruel swines, who had not an ounce of care or compassion for their wards’.
I could tell you lots of stories about his childhood, but the one that sticks out for me, is the one where he became infamous for punching a nun in the stomach and calling her ‘Bloody cruel’ for humiliating his brother in front of the whole school. His experiences of the church in his childhood taught him little about the comfort some people find in religion, but on the contrary, taught him it was to be feared and never trusted. He made it very clear that his funeral was not to be a religious ceremony.
As a consequence, during the service, which was a real celebration of his life, and so many people attended they had to stand at the back of the chapel, the songs we played for him were: Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers, Wind Beneath My Wings by Bette Midler, The Green, Green Grass of Home, and Delilah by Tom Jones. The latter two he could belt out flawlessly.
Dad hated school and was delighted to leave. He had many jobs in the early days, most of them involved driving. He was a bit of a jack-the-lad I think, although those stories weren’t told to me. He loved music, and was a Teddy Boy, much to my grandmother’s horror. We kids loved nothing more than to see him jive with my mum. He used to spin her so fast I often wondered how she kept her balance. Before he met my mum, he was called up for National Service, and became a corporal in the military police. There were so many tales from those days, but one of the best was when escorting a lad who had gone AWOL back to barracks, dad managed to lose him in Woolworths.
Mum was the love of his life, having a family completed him. He was a man’s man, going to the pub at weekends, his word being the last word, whatever the disagreement, and so on. But other than on one occasion when I kicked my brother (he must have deserved it), I can not remember any real fall outs with dad. I hated the strict curfew he set me, I hated having to phone a taxi to
get me home before I left the house if I was going out for the evening, after all I was working and considered myself very grown up. I hated the way he’d ask boyfriends where they kept their guide dogs, but I hated it all with a secret smile, because that was my dad being my dad, and I loved him.
Dad’s biggest regret in life was that my mum never got to meet her great grandchildren. But he showered them with enough love for both of them. Dad loved kids and they loved him.
He kept his sense of humour until the end. On the day he was coming home from hospital, he told me he didn’t think he had long as he’d been hallucinating. Before I got there, my Godfather had been sitting in the chair I was using for over an hour. ‘He kept looking at me like I was going to speak to him.’ Dad told me. I asked if he did. ‘Don’t be stupid, the man’s been dead for twenty odd years, do you think I’m mad?’ he replied, 
and then winked at me.
His funeral was sad, but I hope a true celebration of his life. He’d have had competition on the stories being told about his life at the wake, and if he was looking down on us, he’d have been miffed he wasn’t there to join in.
So, David John Hawkes, my wonderful Dad, it’s a goodnight from you, and a goodnight from us. If I ever wake to find you sitting in a chair expecting me to speak, rest assured I will. How I’d welcome one more story.
What a fulfilling life your father had!
My condolences to you and your family. It is never easy but the memories of love fun and laughter surpass the emptiness.
Mat he rest in peace.
❤️? Nancy
Thank you Nancy. Much appreciated x
Sadly as we get older death is a fact of life and we lose loved ones and other heroes. I wrote something, gosh 20 years ago now:
Field of Heroes
Yesterday I stood in a field of heroes
I was visiting my own hero, my dear Dad
Cemeteries have a special aura
Of calm and peace and … sadness
My Father’s grave had bright flowers on it
A relief to all the greyness around there
A couple of paces away lay my maternal Grandparents
My Grandma had died the day before my eighth birthday Grandad five years later
They were both special people:
She a Lady’s maid until her heart was stolen
By the cheeky chap with the roguish grin
He was a hero too – a soldier of the ‘Great’ War
Who lost a leg serving King and Country
But managed to turn that tragedy into fun
By playing spoons on his legs
Laughing at my astonished look by the differing sound Sharing the same grave is my Uncle
He visited every Sunday,
Presented me with a shiny half-crown
And played games too
Opposite them, lying side by side
Are his sister and her husband
Uncle George served his country too
In World War Two he was part of the Dunkirk ‘miracle’
And for the forty years following the incident
Wore his veteran’s blazer with pride
My Aunt was a proud woman
Proud of him and the cosy home she made for them
I looked up and saw the thousands of graves around me
Each contained a hero in someone’s eyes
For each departed person was loved by someone
Father, Mother, Brother, Sister, Husband, Wife, Son, Daughter That thought comforted me, and made me sad too
For each of us must inevitably suffer the heartache
As our own special beloved kin die
And are either scattered by the breeze
Or buried in a similar field of heroes
© Christine L. Coles – January 2002
Oh Christine, what lovely words. Thank you for sharing them x
I know how you are feeling; l lost my beloved father to leukaemia in 1997 aged just 62, and my mother died 10 years later aged 79. Yes Dad was a ‘toy boy’ ?. My partner of 18 years died in 2015, he was 11 years older than me but it was still a shock. It’s just me and my brother now, although I do have another brother that we haven’t seen or heard from since Mum’s funeral, don’t know why; no row or anything untoward really. You will feel raw right now and if you’re anything like me, silly things will upset you – like their favourite songs, or food treats. With my Dad it was Close To You by the Carpenters, and McVities digestive biscuits. I was very much a Daddy’s girl so losing him, especially so young was hard and at the time I was already battling with depression. My writing was got me through eventually, and the support of some of the contributors to my writers’ group that I set up. That’s how I came to write quite a lot of poetry; it was so popular online. I’ve published all my writing at that time in a collection of ebooks through Lulu, and later Amazon. The writers group closed when MSN pulled the plug on all the groups, but some of my friends from there nagged me to get my work published at least online, hence the eBooks. My Love Poetry volume is by far the best seller but we’re talking double figures not thousands or millions! But I don’t promote them and it wasn’t intended to be a commercial venture anyway, but I am flattered when someone does buy something. I haven’t written for many years, too busy initially when I recovered enough to return to work, and then it seemed pointless; who would read it anyway? Sorry I’ve rambled on but I wanted to reassure you that YOUR life will go on, but you will take time to heal and be able to laugh and smile again.
Thank you, Christine. I’m sorry you have experienced so much loss, I can only imagine how that would effect you. For what it’s worth I think you should start writing again. Even if it’s only for yourself. I didn’t write to earn money initially it was more to fill the time and to see if I could write a mystery. I published because I could and after the third book did try a promotion which worked. I will never be rich either but I’m not going to stop writing, because first and foremost it’s for me.
PS You didn’t ramble x
I’m so sorry for your loss x
Thank you Pippa x
Dear Marcia, I hope you’ll keep on talking to your children and grandchildren about your dad. They will grow up remembering and knowing him so much better, and you’ll find, as I’m sure you already have, comfort in reliving your memories with them. Much love to you. Jill x
Thank you Jill. The grandchildren have as many stories about him as we do, and we have lovely videos of him with the great-grandchildren so hopefully they will realise how much they meant to him xx
Your father sounds like a lovely man. My heartfelt condolences to you and your family on your loss.
Fakhira xx
Thank you Fakhira, he was. x
Such a lovely tribute to your Dad. He sounded like a wonderful character.
R.I.P. ?
He was certainly that, Olive. Thank you for your kind words.
Sorry for your loss. From what you have written there some fabulous memories and I’m sure very many more, your dad sounds like an amazing man. Death leaves a heartache no one can heal but love leaves us with memories that no one can steal.
Thank you Sarah, your words are very true x
What a lovely read that was.
He would call me “his favourite daughter in law” and I would respond with “and you’re my favourite father in law”. I was his only daughter in law and he was the best you could wish for.
He was such a great socialiser and I loved the fact that my parents and yours got on so well.
Nick x
Ah, Thanks Nic. It was very bittersweet going through all the photographs and videos of him x
Oh Marcia, I’m so sorry for the loss of your Dad. He sounds an amazing man who loved you all dearly. What wonderful memories you will have of him. Sending you and your family my condolences.
Ann xx
Thank you Ann, Much appreciated x
As your Dads resident accompanist I have to say his rendition of Delilah and Green green grass were better than Tom Jones! A smashing bloke. R. I. P. Dave.
Thank you Dave x He’d be chuffed you said that x