My father was a tough man, but he was also my favourite parent and I tried hard to please him most of the time. I knew how to please my dad, by always going to him outdoors and offering to help him. I would always get the boring jubs, like sweeping up, weeding, scraping and cleaning paintwork, tidying up, and tasks like that. This exposed me to his brilliance with any DIY projects he undertook. As my compedence improved, my jobs would get better, eventually leading to the actual painting, planting, cleaning as such like. He taught me how to do so much DIY.
It become expected of me when returning home from school, to get out of my uniform and go outside and help dad. He was always outside, either in the shed or the garden. He always found something for me to do, and always expected best results. He would always examine my work, making sure I’d done it right. If I hadn’t, he would let me know, and not always in a friendly fashion. One job I hated, but got good with, was digging the garden with a real spade. Dad would examine the depth of the forward trench, and for row straightness. That was always back-breaking and tiring work. Then there were fences, and metal gates that needed scraping and sanding. I hated those jobs as well. Grass cutting was another job I regularly got given. Not with a lawn mower, and not even our lawn. Dad would send me next door to Mrs Cleverley’s, the old woman who’s house was scruffy and smelly. My tools would be a bag for the cutting, something to kneel on, and a pair of hand held clippers. The ground was too rough for a lawn mower.
As you can imagine, I learned to hate these jobs, even though they had to be done. I wouldn’t dare complain. Of course, a lot depended on what shifts dad was on at work. If he was on ‘afternoons’ he would usually leave a list of work for me, and he’d leave the tools I’d need out for me near the kitchen door. My routine was, home from school and get out of my uniform into old clothes. Straight outside to get on with the work until tea, then continue after, until dark.
The only time this routine was interrupted was, for a few years at least, when it was raining. That was, until dad built a car port. He’d then arrange jobs I could do under the shelter of it. Often cold and miserable! But rainy days were the best. No garden work, no scraping ranch fencing, no wire brushing wrought iron gates and posts, no sweeping patios or cutting smelly neighbour’s grass! Sometimes when working outside, I would pray for rain. With the slightest smattering of raindrops, I would stop working immediately. Yes, I learned to love rainy days.
Nothing has changed over the fifty years since. I still love it when it’s raining, for similar reasons. I’m an inside type of person. I like my office and I’ve always loads needs doing. We have a wonderful big house, reasonable size garden, grass, borders filled with plants and shrubs, all surrounded with big six feed wooden fence panels. Plenty to do. Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy doing stuff outdoors. I find the gardening somewhat therapeutic. I always get a sense of having achieved something useful! My goal is always to fill our two green bins, so I can’t do any more.
When I get up in the morning, and it’s raining, I have a feeling of naughty happiness inside. No work outside today! I suppose, although I moan about living in dull, wet and run-down Wigan, on the plus side, I get more days in the office than I used to down the south of the country. I love rainy days, me!
