Dads

My father was the finest of men and the best of fathers. He didn't read to me but he told me stories of when he was a boy on Colonsay, a small Hebridean Island, where he was born in 1901. The Islanders all spoke Gaelic but schooling in the one teacher school on the island was in English and the children were punished if they spoke in Gaelic at school....probably the reason my father did not become a great reader.
One story he told me was about a ships figurehead, a female figure, that he and other boys found washed up on the shore, bleached white by the sea. They set it up by a lonely road they knew a woman would have to walk along at night and hid. The figurehead shone in the moonlight. They expected the woman to scream and run away at the sight of a ghost. But she just walked up to the figurehead, patted it and said in Gaelic, " aren't you cold out here, my dear?" My father told me her confidence was due to the strength of her religious faith. But I think now that she must have heard the children giggling in their hidey hole.

My Dad was a lovely man who so much wanted my brother and I to have a happy childhood. He read to us and took us to the library every week and later to the theatre. Unfortunately we all had Mum to contend with. She didnt believe in books and reading, it was classified as wasting time. She was endlessly unhappy, angry and resentful of her path through life. She regularly used to tell me (the eldest) her life effectively ended when I came along to ruin everything. As soon as I could read by myself I retreated off into the world of books which provided a wonderful escape from Mum and her woes.

My mother never slapped or used any form of physical punishment but like someone posted upthread she was verbally very hard.
She was sarcastic and withering, she tried it with my C but she soon got told never to do that again.
She did it with me all her life
I was actually quite scared of her, always seeking her approval.
I do wonder if things had been different if my dad had lived to a good age, I shall never know.
What is very sad is that they never had anyone really mourn them, they never knew of course but others did.

My Dad didn't read to me
However he took me into the park often rowing a boat on the lak, regular visits to museums in London, bike rides and long country walks and blackberry picking on holidays. He also was ahead of his time in as much as an older father (of a daughter) in the sixties he always called me to watch and learn when he mended things, changed a plug, reheeled and soled shoes etc. I'm forever thankful I grew up being able to do lots of things for myself .

My dear dad passed in 1980, he was an awesome dad. He used to read to me every night. He used to take me on coach trips and we would go fishing. He made me a little room behind the shed and I used to out on plays with my Pelham puppets. My mother never had to work or ask him for money he settled the bills but she had a generous bank account that he topped up. She never had to ask him to decorate he did it every 2 years. She was lucky, he was older than her. He served and nearly died in WW1 I think he was so grateful to be alive after the horrors of trench warfare that he made every day matter. I was devastated when he died. My mother died 6 years before and he was tired of being without her.

My Dad read to me every night. Mum never read to me. Dad was the disciplinarian. Mum never disciplined me. I think every child needs a bedtime story

I don't think many of the Dad's did then, it was the times, they provided. The role was different.

Neither parent read to me. I can't even recall seeing any nooks other than a set of Encyclopedia Britanica. First books I recall are the ones I received as prizes at school. Loved going into town to the bookseller and choosing from the selection teacher had made for prizewinners.

Reading to children is not just reading the words it is putting on a show with the words.

I was born late to parents who already had a grown up family. I adored my father, a very quiet, self contained man who I never saw lose his temper, unlike my mother who was a constant mass of seething resentment about more or less everything that happened in her life. I never understood what made her like this until I had a few life lessons under my own belt, but it didn’t make for a happy household. Envied friends with younger parents and close knit families. My father was like the eye of a storm for me.

I never really remember either of them reading to me as a very young child, but in spite of his very basic education - he left school to work when he was fourteen - dad was an avid reader. Books were his escape and even before I was old enough to go on my own, he took me to the library. He fostered my life long interest in books. The greatest gift he could have given me.

He liked detective novels by Edgar Wallace, Leslie Charteris and Raymond Chandler, and novels by Arthur Conan Doyle, C. S. Forrester, Alistair Maclean and H. Rider Haggard. I remember badgering him to read King Solomon’s Mines to me because the dust jacket looked very exciting and he would choose a few excerpts he deemed suitable. As soon as I had the facility to read them unaided, these authors became my own favourites.

He would take me to the cinema in town too and buy a small box of chocolates to share, though there was little sharing went on as I remember😊!

My heart weeps for those who have unhappy memories of their fathers. My dad read to us every single night before he went to eat his dinner. Before we started school our mum would read to us after lunch, my sister and me and mum all squashed into a huge old armchair in front of the open fire in our nursery. I have such happy memories of my childhood and I know how lucky I am.

English was not my mother's first language, so my earliest memory of being read to in English is Daddy reading Winnie-the Pooh to me, while I sat on his knee so I could see the illustrations in the book.

At our birthday parties, or Halloween parties, and sometimes to amuse us children at grown-up parties too, he would get down on the floor and dance Cossack steps and teach us children to do them too.

So sorry Silverlings & everyone else who went through this, love to all . In those days the stigma associated with mental illness was unbelievable and as a child I was terrified of being 'found out' and no longer invited to friend's houses. It happened. Thankfully there is far more understanding and compassion for children now.

I feel so sad reading how many posters had either abusive, violent childhoods or simply grew up with a lack of parental affection and closeness. Children are so utterly vulnerable and dependent on parents - ignoring or shirking that responsibility is one of the worst things imaginable. My heart goes out to you all.

It's impossible to read of those experiences without comparing them to my own. I was one of eight children and our affection came mostly from our lovely dad. We were very short of money and sometimes food; Mum was always pregnant or nursing and often seemed sad and lacking in the space or energy to show any affection. I'm sure she loved us all but often found her life difficult and burdensome. Dad was always busy, often outside the home - preaching or helping others - but in terms of the original subject of this thread, he was the one who read to us every night. He was wonderfully creative with his made-up stories, with a different episode every night. He also read to us from books and had his particular favourites - Aesop's Fables and an old Victorian novel called Freddie's Little Brother, which was about a young boy having to look after younger siblings as the family were in penury owing to a drunken, gambling father. It was terribly sad but we loved it because Dad did. He said to me more than once "You cannot do better than give a child a love of books" and he certainly did that for me! He was so proud of me when I became a secondary English teacher. I know I could read by the time I was 4 and have vivid memories of sitting in an armchair with my brother - 2 years older than me - reading to me. Mum said he actually taught me to read.

I'll never forget my wonderful Dad and the joy he brought to our childhood by retaining his own childlikeness! (made up word!) all his life. I'm so lucky to have had such a father in my life and wish everyone on here could have had the same.

All my dad did was thrash me with a leather belt on a regular basis.

I am so sorry to hear that.

Me too silverlining. When I was very small, about 5 I think. Me and my sister, who is 3 years older, walked to the local police station and asked the desk sergeant if he could stop our dad from hitting our mum. He said 'Go home girls. I can't help you'.

I feel very sorry for all of you who had abusive parents. Mine were never outwardly affectionate in any way - I don't ever remember being cuddled or hugged, but I was never physically abused. My mother preferred to show her displeasure with words instead - which can leave their own emotional lifelong scars.
I do wonder, having read this thread, that that coldness or lack of emotion was in some part caused by their wartime years.
Hopefully we learned from those experiences and strived to be better parents to our own children.

The mental scars do remain. Yes we can talk about it now with trusted friends, but there was nowhere to go for help then. I could cry for the small innocent child that I was.
All I ever wanted was a normal dad.

My dad was 37 when I was born and he and my M had been married for a number of years.
He wasn’t very hands on as I remember and was ill for a long time dying when I was 11.
I can’t remember a lot about him. My M was not a loving person although I believe she did her best for me.
I was an only child, but she constantly reminded me all of her long life how much she had done for me and how hard it had been.
She was very shocked once when repeating this once again my H said
“I don’t suppose it was much fun for X either”.
She looked rather embarrassed and we didn’t hear it so much after that.

My Dad & I loved each other very much. He was frequently very ill with Manic Depression (as it was known in those days) and was sectioned and had rounds of ECT along side a plethora of drug treatments and pycho therapies.
I was aware that he was 'different' but it's his kindness and interesting outlook on the world that I miss so much. I don't think at the time I realised how much he was teaching me about art, science & nature only that he was always fascinated with something or needed to explore places.
Like so many of our Dads he went through the very toughest of times and wanted a better future for me.
He lived with me for his last 11 years and although bed bound a lot of the time his well being and mental health were very good. Miss him so so much.

Gingster

Such a lovely photo Gramaretto.❤️

Thanks Gingster The photos were taken on holiday at Charlton Mackrell, Somerset in the summer of 1949.
At least that's what is written in the album.

My Dad seemed rather distant when I was a child. He was a GP in single handed practice and we lived above the surgery. He was on duty 24/7. However, he was punctilious in making sure that tried all sorts of sports and activities including cultural. Life was a very serious business. No fun.
He was a different man with the grandchildren though. He could be more relaxed with them. He did once tell me he loved me though even though it was a prelude to a row about how untidy my house was!

Well done to all with horrible dads for getting through it, despite the scars.

Basgetti

My dad was monstrous, abused us all.

Stepdad, on the other hand, lovely man. More caring than my mother.

Well done your stepdad, just goes to show that blood isn’t always thicker than water.