My father, James Davidson, died at around 22:10 BST on Sunday 9 July 2017, after a long battle with cancer.  Today is the first anniversary of his death, so I wanted to mark the day by reflecting on some of the life lessons I learnt from him.

I remember saying, during a long conversation in the hospital, 8 days before his death, that he was “the person most like me in the world”.  That’s a rather egocentric reversal of the actual situation, as I’m clearly (to some extent) a copy of his attitudes, and values, rather than vice versa.  So, I hope that these reflections can pay proper credit to the actual, original source.

Lesson #1: See the funny (or, ideally, farcical) aspect in everything

My dad had a unique and disarming sense of humour.  I recall as a child literally being disarmed on one occasion in which I thought I had the opportunity to score a moral victory.  He had accidentally broken some toy of mine; a little spring-propelled rocket-launching toy soldier, and I took this as an opportunity to put him on the spot in a tearful, indignant, 6-year-old-in-the-right kind of a way, railing at the injustice of his accidental action.  I wish I could recall the content of his response, but whatever he said to me was so amusing that I couldn’t help but break into a smile, despite myself, and I half-hated and wholly-admired him for it!

My third year teacher in primary school was a “Miss Harding”.  My dad immortalised her in the following piece of nonsense verse:

“I beg your parding, Miss Harding, my chicking is in your garding”

I mentioned the first half of this to him in the hospital and he admitted that he couldn’t remember the rest.  His face positively lit up with the recollection when I finished it for him.

I recall too his favourite saying whenever the topic of “rubbish” came up:

“Where’s your bin?  I ain’t been nowhere!”.

Repeated ad-infinitum, of course, as the best lines deserve to be.

Often his humour was employed to make a gentle, but memorable point.  Every time that I (usually only when in the UK and/or staying in a hotel, these days) spread marmalade on a piece of toast; liberally, and into every corner, I hear his breakfast table observation to the teenage me:

“I see you like a little toast with your marmalade”.

And then, there was that memorable summer holiday in Ireland, touring various damp campsites in our trailer tent, and spending evenings reading “The Best of Shrdlu” (a compilation of newspaper misprints).  We laughed ourselves nearly to the point of suffocation.

Lesson #2: Do everything to the best of your ability

My primary school notebooks were wrapped by my dad in a protective layer of wallpaper or brown paper with the precision I came to expect from him as a design engineer.  We weren’t a demonstratively affectionate family in the 70’s, but I knew at that early age that this attention to detail was a token of how much my dad cared for me.  It was unspoken, and special.

During “scout job week” (or “bob a job” as we were told not to call it, as it suggested pre-decimalisation compensation levels of 5 pence) I was mortified by my dad turning up at a neighbour’s vegetable patch (which I had half-heartedly weeded for the princely sum of 20 pence) and insisting that I did it again, this time properly!  He was right, of course, and it neatly drummed into me the value of doing things right the first time.

Later, as a gangly and awkward teenager, I collaborated reluctantly with him on a project to build and waterproof a garden shed and discovered a self-worth and sense of satisfaction in the finished product that I hadn’t imagined was possible.

Lesson #3: Enjoy the great outdoors

My dad was a scout, as a child (and in the idyllic, lough-side village setting of Greyabbey, where he grew up) and it was an organization that he signed my brother and me up to as soon as we were old enough to wear a woggle.  I owe to this my ability to tie a “highwayman’s hitch” knot with which I can escape through a window from a high tower (and then unravel and bring the rope along with me as I make my escape) and various other such outdoor skills that I have yet to use, but that I know will come in handy someday.  My brother and I enjoyed many a walk along the shore or through woods (sometime leaving or following trails of arrows, set with twigs).  Our dad would often implore us to stop, taste the fresh air, and fill our lungs.

Lesson #4: Find your passion and pursue it

My dad was a life-long motorcyclist, from the age of 18 (with his first bike; a red Matchless 250), to the age of 77 (with his final, and longest-owned, at 9 years, motorbike; a black Honda CB250F).  His favourite ride took him from Bangor to Millin Bay and back, and he did this many times (or as many as the variable Northern Irish weather would allow).  As a teenager, I did quite a lot of pillion riding with him on his rather appalling lime-green, Czechoslovakian CZ250 motorbike (from which he was mercifully separated by an inexperienced 18 year old driving his father’s car, a few years later).  At 17, I got my first motorbike; a Kawasaki KC100, and thanks to the pillion practice, almost instantly knew how to ride it; the timbre of engine RPM and gear changes familiar from the hours on the back of his CZ.

When I finally realised a much-postponed dream of motorcycling around New Zealand with friends over Xmas 2017, I know my dad was there with me, in some way.  He’d have approved, and in fact knew of the plan and had given me an article from a motorcycle magazine, a few years before, which documented such a trip.  When I looked through the article again, post-trip, I realised that the bike hire company mentioned was actually the same as we’d used: Paradise Motorcycle Tours!

Lesson #5: Be organised; for your own benefit, and for others

The one positive of a relatively non-aggressive cancer diagnosis is that it gives you a chance to properly plan your exit, with the intention of causing the least disruption and upset to others.  My dad had taken on the responsibility of handling the funeral arrangements of both his and my mum’s parents, and of his sister, Nan.  And so, he drafted a document, and refined it over the years, right up to 2017, to give detailed instructions on what to do; registering the death, getting copies of the death certificate, contacting the solicitor, changing various insurance policies to put them in my mum’s name, informing pension companies, and even how and where to return his senior rail pass, library card etc.

In the days after his death, I had the honour and satisfaction of working my way through his document, ticking off the items, and knowing that he would approve of the progress being made.

Lesson #6: Never just accept injustice

My dad wasn’t at all outspoken or prone to ranting and raving about the injustices of the world, but they truly did bother him; particularly, as he once mentioned to me, where the victims were children (suffering for any reason), or helpless old people (as famously mistreated in a few awful cases in Retirement homes, or ripped off by bogus repairmen).

On our frequent visits to his sister’s (and parents’) grave in Greyabbey, my dad would tour the gravestones, recalling neighbours, teachers, schoolfriends and comically gasping at the one “JAMES DAVIDSON” grave (which, he said, always gave him a bit of a shiver when he saw it).  However, there was one particular grave we always spent some time at; the grave of “Wee Roy” as my dad called him; the 2 year old son of a next-door neighbour from the time that my dad was aged around 10.  He recalled “Wee Roy” as a little boy who would run happily around the garden, and who succumbed suddenly to the death sentence, in those days, of Leukaemia.  He and I agree on there being no possible cosmic sense in this at all.

Final thoughts

Before my dad died, I was so lucky to have returned from Asia in time to talk to him, and to reassure him that I would help to organise everything and he didn’t have to worry.  We had his “document” perfectly written up and reviewed from my visit a few months before, after all!  I promised him that I would keep his legacy going of “being extremely organised and having a weird sense of humour”.

If I’ve seemed more “myself” than ever over the last year, that’ll be why.

R.I.P.  James (Jim) Davidson.  1 August 1940 – 9 July 2017.