He respected guns, and taught me to shoot. He took me out driving in every vehicle my license would allow me to drive, so I could be confident to drive anything I got behind, except somehow he never taught me to back a trailer. Oops. Still, I've driven tractors, trucks, stick shifts, column shifts, automatics, vintages and you-name-its.
He loved lollies, and had quite a sweet tooth. He was fiercely independent and very private. We didn't have a lot, but we had enough and I felt rich, and secure. He played Lotto. He had his chair,
a recliner rocker that was hotly contested as long as he was not in it. This is how I remember him very clearly. I'm delighted I have such a 'like' photo of him, and although there are others of him around, this is a beauty. Cropped out is the cat at his feet.
He loved to fish, and I wish I could lay my hands on a wonderful photo of him holding two enormous deep sea dhufish, after a great day of fishing, the cats at his feet. He loved his cats. He loved dogs too, and used to breed dachshunds when I was a small child, but my Mum didn't like dogs, so they had to go.
He was a hoarder, a pack rat. Remind you of anyone? You should have seen his shed when he died. I still have some of his stuff, including his diary from the year I was born, noting my birth. I treasure his handwriting.
He loved his four daughters, and always vowed that he was more than happy to be the father of four girls, with no sons. I was born when he was 32, the last of us a few days after his 40th birthday. I remember making him a card for his 40th. This week I will make a 40th card for that sister.
He was allegedly domestically capable, but this was rarely demonstrated. Instead he was waited on hand and foot, his cuppa quickly fetched within minutes of his return after a hard day's work.
He was a sparse drinker who enjoyed a tipple but rarely over-indulged. Gift bottles of whisky would last for years, eked out in his occasional Irish coffee. He always smoked however, for a few years it was a pipe, later rollies.
I have a treasured memory of him in the last days of his life, in a palliative care unit at the time, sitting outside on a patio, offering me his ancient woollen dressing gown against the evening cold, while he rolled a smoke. We sat together peaceably for a time and then he was tired and I tucked him back in bed. It was the last conversation we ever shared.
The next morning he slipped into unconsciousness, and was taken home where we spent the next 48 hours preparing to let him go. He was barely rousable. The only words he spoke that weekend were of love. "Th'nk you" "Love you" as we turned him, or cleaned him, or stroked him. It was pretty special, and a great privilege to nurse him at the end of his life. He died peacefully on a Sunday at lunchtime, hours after seeing an old friend from Speedway days. We laid him out in his full Masonic regalia, as a Past Master, with family photos in his pocket, his XXXX strong peppermints, money for the paper. The months of his illness had finally seen the grease stains fade from his fingertips, and the undertakers somehow buffed out the welding sparks from his glasses. We were so astonished that we each commented on it at the viewing.
He was a man of dignity and few words, but occasionally he would rabbit on about an unlikely topic. He spoke to all men. He loved children, and called them all Charlie. Five of his grandchildren were born in his lifetime, luckily mine, as the eldest, knew him. The working windmill and swing he built for my kids are still in my yard.
He died one month after he turned 65, from pancreatic cancer, a fast and aggressive cancer that took no prisoners. It is on both sides of the family, and I feel a little daunted at the thought that I may have seen my future end. I hope I have the courage and dignity he showed.
I miss him, and yet I don't. Everything he was to me, he still is. A guide, a mentor, a role model. Steadfast, old-fashioned but interested in innovation. I have his lessons, and he is within me. I often sense his presence. Sometimes I hear myself laughing his throaty deep chuckle. Of course I do miss him, and love him, his acceptance and insights. Even now, fifteen years after his passing, I still have the instinct to tell him something. He was a thinker. I wish he could visit, but maybe he does. I know he would be proud of me, of the Laura I am today. Except he called me Jane. Its a long story. I'm not sure what he'd make of us all now. Things have really changed a lot for our family, not all for the better.
But, today I celebrate the anniversary of his birth. The roast dinner is on. I will raise a glass. Writing this has led to more than a tear or two (where're the tissues when you need them?). This is my favourite photo of my Dad and I together on my wedding day in 1985.
And I am proud to be Dennis' daughter.
It quacked, and whined, and waddled up and down, and carried on until I took its photo and then it stopped. I'm not kidding. Go figure. 
I took two photos of this one, to reward good behaviour.
He vowed that it was really rare and we should take a photo of it. So I did. For posterity, in case it became extinct overnight. Funnily enough this 'grebe' had a lot of cousins in Stresa, and on the Borromeo islands.
Here is the Duomo, that we so loved. Isn't it pretty? 
It looks like a piece of starched lace, it has such a lightness about it. Sadly the interior is quite gloomy and one can't take photos
...ooops...
how did those get there? 
Don despairs of me taking photos of ceilings and floors, but I am a slave to beauty.
It was Italy folks. Lago Maggiore was quite, quite lovely. 
There was a small chain of islands, the Borromeo islands near the shore at Stresa and we went over to them by water taxi on our last day. 
Just looking at them was really nice, especially in the dusk light. 
This is the restaurant cafe where I accessed the internet during my stay,
and we had dinner there on the first night. It was delicious.
I saw really sweet lizards (Note, no lizards were licked to back this statement). 
I even found a junkyard that I itched to fossick in, but restrained myself, more from lack of sufficient Italian to explain myself as a junk obsessed Aussie whose Dad had a great shed, and how it makes me nostalgic for him ..... oh, and the suitcase thing. Sigh. 
I saw enormous tadpoles in an alpine pond. I saw cows and goats in a forest from the air.
I rested in a lakeside pirate cove
with pretty stones.
I am in the pic somewhere. We came home to the news of Michael Jackson's death. Funny heh? The associations that we will always make with that night. I met some interesting people, ate from silver plates and had great food. The floorshow was an interesting piece of cabaret - a shadow maker who depicted famous people - so simple, so ... weird ... but very effective. Almost every photo from that night has a silver line across people's faces from flash bounceback off the silver plates. One of the unexpected drawbacks of wealth (cough) and privilege.
Interesting little winding streets, old, old buildings. 
One island, Isola Pescatori, had a cat sanctuary for homeless cats. We found this motheaten old moggy who looks like an older, sleeker version of our cat at home, Phoenix. 
Puss was nobly ignoring the taunts of these cheeky swallows. 
When you used the public loos the contributions went to support the cats. 
The palace contained one level that was all 'underground' 
and stone covered, a grotto,
for use in the summer. It still contained amazing pieces of sculpture. 
Napoleon slept in this bed. 
There was an enormous tapestry gallery. 
The amount of money to build this place must have been staggering. Mussolini has dined in the restaurants, along with many famous actors and even a Pope. The views from the gardens looked back towards the mainland and the village of Stresa. 
It was really pretty gorgeous, if a bit OTT Italian style. 
We were impressed, but cool about it.
