Daddy

                                 Gerard Oliver Golden

                                                         March 28^th 1952- March 8th 2014

 

Inch Beach, Co. Kerry

The bearded tufts of sea grass shield the gentle green curves of the Kerry hills from the might of the Atlantic gusts.  Mother and Father Nature are here together, in this place. They work side by side, hand in hand.  

I remembered my father’s hands. As a younger girl I always wanted him to hold my hand more but I was a little shy of asking. It wasn’t what we did, I suppose. The longing to hold them now was strong. They were very soft and I recalled rubbing them as he lay in bed not long before he took his last baby breath and slipped away.  “Your father had beautiful hands alright”, I recalled my mother say.

I walked along the sandy shore and I began to think about my Dad. He must have felt a renewed sense of hope deep in his heart each time he managed a short walk on the beach. His desire to stay on this Earth as powerful as the gusts that  were now swirling around me.

My father used those hands to work hard in our pub Golden's Bar, all his life.  They pulled pints, stacked empty shelves and rolled heavy barrels of the black stuff , they lifted and dragged crates and boxes. They cleaned glasses, wiped table tops, mopped floors and lit fires; big welcoming fires around which many people sat - wonderful people- funny people. Men and women, young and old, sitting, talking, sipping, clapping, singing and laughing. Always laughter. And on many a night they danced with the sparks of the much loved fire at their feet. There were times too when his hands lay quiet in his lap, business as it does forcing them to slow down awhile. I recall the furrows on his brow when days were long and customers few.

 I harked back in my mind to watching his hands counting the money. The same routine each time. The coins strewn across the big old counter.  He’d slide them into his open hand, left to right and fast as lightening before stacking them up into little towers,  counting, concentrating, 1p’s, 2p’s 5p’s 10p’s… tap tap, tap.  Separate bundles for the cash, of course. He’d whistle as he went, always a sign of a good weekend. And of those there were plenty. Music, sport and drama. They were great sessions, dance on the counter and sing your heart out sessions. Italia 90, Sonia O’ Sullivan, All Ireland finals, the rugby, the golf, the dogs and Cheltenham- his favourite. I’d watch on from behind the counter, still too young to participate fully but always immersed. They were special times for everyone.

 My father was a man lost and found many times over in this world as anyone could be. Each in their own personal and unique way. He had his flaws, he was only human. But he was my father and I loved him. He loved to see a fella do well in life, especially the underdog. He was generous of spirit and was a gentleman in his own way. He was a supporter of the working man, no airs or graces. I remember noticing some of the ways in which he would help people, give them a start. He was always good that way. He enjoyed a good yarn, he laughed heartily, he enjoyed his pint, particularly after a hectic night and he could quiet a crowd with a song.

 As I turned the corners of Slea Head I glanced back at the beauty behind me. I followed  on along the road to my journeys end-Dingle. I stopped the car and looked out at the silvery sky and I think I saw my father’s face again as he met his journeys’ end that afternoon in the hospital. The warm peace that hugged him in his bed. No more pain, no more fear. All lines and wrinkles left his face that day, all earthly scars sank back into the ocean of his lived life and vanished out of sight.

                                                                            ***

 “Never saw Gerdie looking so well; a lovely expression on his face”, they whispered as they filed past his coffin. “I had some of the best nights of my life in that bar!” giggled another. “Ah, the poor man, may he rest in peace”.

 I prayed for him every day after he died that his spirit be lifted to new heights. I hope it will rise and soar to places in the world he never got to see. I hope it will settle again somewhere new, somewhere beautiful with a long sandy beach and a few green hills; where he can walk with ease, possibly with his own mother and father, together again in nature and holding hands.

                                                 Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam dílis.