Dads

No, that's ok Kate
It is good that you can talk about it.

My stepfather was nearly 20 years older than my mother and was distant and found 4 children, myself included after the age of 50 very irritating. He’d been in a PoW camp in Java during the war. He never talked about it to anyone. I can’t remember either of my parents reading to any of us. As soon as I’d learnt to read I spent the rest of my childhood in the lovely local library and escaped into books. My mother grew to hate him and divorced while we were in our late teens. It was not a happy childhood for any of us.

Bluebell, I think we must be sisters because what you're describing is my parents, my dad was the quiet one, he liked to muck about fixing anything that was broken...and making toys for xmas...dolls houses and cots...

Am so sorry Kate1949 and others whose fathers were abusive. I cannot imagine how awful that must have been.
My father was a very hardworking man who tried his best to provide what we needed even if it meant my mother and himself often went without.
He never read to us at night nor can I recall my mother doing this either, my older sister would like to make up stories at bedtime though but some of them were quite scary and so I would lie awake at night with a blanket over my head.

My father was never touchy feely, and worked long hours. He didn't read to me, but when I was older he recommended books to me and we discussed books we'd both read. What he did do was make me a wonderful doll's house which was a model of our own house, and my marvellous rocking horse, which was better than all the books in the world to me.

Lovely dads some of you had

You don’t highjack any thread Kate1949
You had such a dreadful home life as a child but it’s to your credit that you have risen above it as an adult with your own family.

It must still hurt though when you think about the childhood you should have had.

My dad was the nicest kindest man on the planet.Always tolerant of others views ,always there for us.
My mother was often ill so his catchphrase was don’t worry your mum ,he would stand out on the back step and lean against the wall and letus unload any issues and gave great advice.As a wee girl he took me to bookshops every week where we would buy second hand books and swap the ones we,d bought the week before.
I can thank him for my love of books and of music,we were brought up on a wide variety of music from classical through swing,jazz,traditional folk and pop.
I miss him every day .
I do say I married my dad because my husband has all his attributes would do anything for us and makes me laugh every day.I,ve been very lucky with the men in my life

My dad was a fantastic father to my sister, brother and me. Every night the 3 of us would crawl into the same bed and dad would tell us a story that he made up in his head. It was about a parrot called Joey and a monkey called Dodo who lived on a desert island. He would tell us their adventures and he would make it so exciting, he would always end on an exciting note and would say “ but that’s for tomorrow night”

This seemed to go on for years although it probably didn’t!!
My sister was about six ,I was five and my brother 3. We were very poor but mum and dad gave us a wonderful happy childhood . Although it was over 70 years ago I can remember everything clearly. To be honest it’s brought a little tear to my eye.

Dad died when I was 5 so I only have fleeting memories. His singing as he cooked porridge, his polishing our shoes on the verandah and telling me he used a special polish called elbow grease, me standing on his shoulders after tea, him bringing in a harvest of lettuces and tomatoes which I loved and carrots which I hated.

I don't remember him reading to us but he may have.
I wish I'd known him better.

DH was a wonderful dad. He read to the children and made up stories to entertain them.
I wish he was still here

Reading before I went to school I’m struggling to recall being read to although I’m sure I must have been as I recall books suitable for 2-3 year olds in the house. There were no other children. I was always encouraged to read, loved and still love books.

My Dad was a practical man. He built things, made toys, mended things, cleaned my shoes, made sure my bedroom was warm when I needed to study, decorated, chased rodents away. I often helped him, unless it involved rodents! He also took over when my mum was in hospital, which was often for a few years, made sure I was fed and laundry done. Mum was the homemaker, knitted just about everything, baked and cooked from scratch every day. Sometimes worked very part time, always home when I was. They both gardened, often I helped, or maybe hindered. Mum was more tactile than dad, we were close. I think dad was a product of his generation in terms of showing emotion The only time I saw him cry was when my mum died with us both by her side and then it was only for a few minutes.

My heart goes out to everyone with painful memories of childhood.

Kate 1949 I feel for you.My childhood was ruled by a violent drunk and I don’t look back on it with happy memories. Glad your now able to talk about it.🤗

CanadianGran

I don't remember my father ever reading to us, but he was very kind and fun with us in other ways. I fondly remember the back rubs I would get while watching TV. My dad was known to always lie on the floor watching TV, and I don't remember him ever sitting in a chair in the living room unless there was company! So often there was a pileup of wrestling with all 4 of us on top of him, and him pulling our toes until we screamed! He was a good man and I miss him.

Canadiangran by dad also used to give me lovely back rubs but mum liked them too so I think the poor man used to have us two women vying for a back rub
Dad wasnt a floor sitter but I have always been one even now
80 + I am always on the floor except when people come to visit then I am all proper and sit in a chair
I watch tv on the floor, do my jigsaws, do my craft stuff, draw , I am just totally comfortable on the floor I can t envisage ever going in a care home and having to sit on a chair ( at the moment I am sitting on the floor drinking my morning coffee in front of the gas fire) yay

I had older parents.

No, Dad never read to us, Mum did, and neither of them said they loved us, but we always knew we were loved.

They rarely praised us, it would make us ‘big headed, leave it to others to praise’.

Dad died very suddenly of a heart attack when I was just 19, over 50 years ago.

It remains the saddest day of my life.

JenniferEccles

You don’t highjack any thread Kate1949
You had such a dreadful home life as a child but it’s to your credit that you have risen above it as an adult with your own family.

It must still hurt though when you think about the childhood you should have had.

Definitely. As the person who started the thread I do not feel the least hi-jacked! I am just sorry that your childhood was so very difficult.

Such different experiences of being a child here. My heart goes out to all of you who should have had a warm, loving home, and did not.
Fathers reading to children are seen as important, particularly as a role model for their sons.

My dad was a lovely sensitive soul. Unfortunately my mum gaslighted him all his life, to the point of making him mentally unwell. I only realised this quite late on. Thankfully though my dad knew I totally saw him for the lovely man he was and that my mum was the trouble, before he died. So pleased about that.

My mother read to me, pre school. My reading took off almost immediately after I started school at aged 4 and 3/4, after that I read voraciously and have ever since. My father never read to me, I had to read to him occasionally, to make sure my reading was up to scratch, which it was, if he could have found fault with it he would have done. Although both my parents surrounded us with books and imbued me with a love of reading, firstly from the library, but it was my father in particular who'd buy me beautiful books, I remember my two Alice books, highly illustrated they were absolutely gorgeous, I wish I still had them. My childhood was fractured with him being overly harsh, he told both me and my brother off a lot and was generally irascible and he wasn't adverse to smacking us and quite hard if he felt we needed it. I was definitely scared of him, I had a certain dread of his key in the door not knowing what sort of mood he'd be in conscious that he could go off like a rocket over something really minor He could be quite different at times though, I remember his dark side was also peppered with acts of him being nice, disconcerting because I never knew which version of him I was going to get. I remember being taken to several ballets around Christmas time Coppellia, The Nutcracker, Swan Lake, my mother complained he'd always stump up for West End stage productions, cinema tickets, or going up to London to museums such as The Natural History, but getting us school shoes when they were worn out, she told me was like getting blood out of a stone. I also remember him buying me all The Beatles records when they first became a presence, I loved them like everyone else. Whilst I didn't suffer some of the awful abuse others have described, I didn't have an easy relationship with my father, he was quite a harsh critic and I also had too much religion both at home and school both parents being devout Catholics. I realise in retrospect how much confidence I lacked throughout the earlier part of my life, my father would always hone in on the weakest part of my school reports but wouldn't praise the subjects I did well in. All in all I didn't bond with him, as I did with my mother who was the parent I really loved, I often wonder what it would have been like to love my parents equally. He was very annoyed with me when I became a lapsed Catholic, my prerogative I told him, I needed to evaluate all of that for myself. I found him too unpredictable, he wasn't demonstrative either in spite of being half Maltese, he seemed to have inherited his English mother's aloofness and critical nature in retrospect he damaged my confidence, I didn't believe in myself, luckily I've had a husband who has spent half a life time rebuilding it.

I found a photograph album of his in a cupboard after my mother died, which he started around 1940 from his time during the war when he was in N Africa, which of course like many he never talked about and after when he first met my mother. He was very handsome I realise looking back at him early 20s, dark and swarthy a bit like Tyrone Power, but of course that's not how I remember him, he had a multitude of illnesses for the last 20 years of his life and he was a shell of his former self. I do wish we had had more conversations because I know I've definitely inherited quite a few of his traits, like his love of history, he had masses of books on almost every period from the ancient civilisations through to the early 20th century.

Like some others my parents were not loving people. They were emotional: anger, frustration and a brooding, silent resentment. My father was occasionally violent. My refuge was books, into which I completely retreated. When I became a father I read to both our children. As an english teacher I used reading out loud ( by me) as a feature of all classes, including A level.
I recently completed a series of psychodynamic therapy to help me deal with the shadow of my childhood that has hung over me all my life.
It was invaluable and transformative. I recommend it as a way of taking control over the past rather than being at its' beck and call.

I have no memory of being read to which is odd given that both my parents were great readers. When I was able to read I also have forgotten but have very vivid memories of weekly visits to the library with my Dad where he would choose books for himself and my Mum and I would always choose three or four for myself. I do know that I was a voracious reader and lost myself in books.

My Dad used to take us out for walks, pointing out things of interest, everything from buildings to trees and the stars. He also used to take us to the cinema before films were categorised resulting in me being forever terrified by the film Zulu.

Cannot remember my father or step-father reading to me.

I can remember my paternal Grandpa reading to me (I stayed with my grandparents at weekends regularly, alternating between the two sets)

He taught me to read, spell really difficult words before I started school. I often went to work with him on a Saturday morning (Carnaby Street). It’s where my love of shoes and handbags stem from. Our time together was very special then and the memories are cherished.

Out of all my parents and step-parents I remember him always being proud of my achievements whether they be small or large like passing the 11+ and getting a place at Grammar school.

The only thing my father tried to teach me was to tell the time. He was so irritable during that process that I was terrified and it took me a very long time indeed to learn how to do it.

I love Dave Allen's take on learning to tell the time: www.youtube.com/watch?v=0QVPUIRGthI

My father died when I was four following a long spell in hospital and I barely remember him. My mother was a wonderful reader aloud and I asked to be read to long after I could read confidently myself. We both read to our children who still remember their father’s version of the Pooh books and all the voices; they both read to their own children too. Not surprising that we all turned out great readers or that we all have degrees in either English or the Classics!

Kate1949
We should have our own group of battered people. The mental scars remain. Wasn’t easy to talk about this years ago. Even family didn’t want to know.

In the 50s my DF read to us - he was very good at doing ‘character’ voices. In particular I remember him reading Famous Five books - however he really didn’t like Julian, so after a speech of Julian’s he’d often add in an aside, ‘Because Julian’s a clever bugger!’ 😂