Farewell to a Father

My father, Bones (as he was called by one of his fellow Officers way back when), passed away at age 93 on December 28th, 2007. He would have been 94 in February, and would have (if my mother were alive today) celebrated his 67th wedding Anniversary this past December 23rd.

What an extraordinary life this man led. Educated in England at a boarding school in the depths of the Kent countryside, he joined the Royal Artillery after going to the Sandhurst Academy. Shortly after that, he became a part of the "Raj" and moved to India, becoming an officer in the Indian Army, specifically the XIV Sikh Regiment, and traveled all over that exquisite Continent. Stories of his times in India fascinated me as a boy, even if some of the stories changed dimensionality over the years, or contingent upon how much gin had been consumed that evening. Tales of tiger hunting, or how a huge python had almost attacked my mother as she crossed a low bridge, pregnant with my elder brother (My father shot the creature, and had it made into handbags, clutches and other accoutrements), fishing for mahseer in small creeks where the fish get huge, or of the intense bravery of the Indian Sikhs, who carried a small but lethal blade called the kukri, that they never let go of in battle, even to the death, all enthralled me. Rudyard Kipling's stories of an earlier India were not far off the experiences my father and his generation had, traipsing all over that rich and deeply cultural land, sometimes imposing a sense of "Englishness" on the system. Some of it worked - India still boasts the finest train schedules in the world, despite having, it seems, more people on the outside of the trains, than inside!

Where I sit, I can see my father's regimental sword, given him when he became a commissioned officer. In a steel and leather scabbard, with a fine filigree handle, it is a reminder of what men went through in those days in the Army. Of course it was never meant to be used in battle—except to lift it and exhort one's troops into the teeth of battle, but it does have a damned sharp tip to it! I handle the sword sometimes. I used to fence as a boy, and loved the balance and feel of an epee in my hand. As a fencer, I was protected by a padded vest and a bulky mask. There is honor amongst fencers, as there is honor amongst soldiers, or perhaps better, officers. This sword is not exceptionally balanced, but it would do the job if you needed to run your opponent through, quickly withdraw it and move on to the next foe in the heat of battle. My father, though would never have had that chance to draw his sword. He always carried a gun with him - no doubt a small side-arm. Officers rarely carry anything but.

During the Second World War, The Colonel, as we called him in our family, taught machine gun school to the Sikhs. When we wasn't doing this, he played polo, or field hockey, or went hunting. Or he traveled. I have a few albums of 2" x 2" black and white images of his travels throughout India, up to the Himalayas, and throughout that beautiful land that is now divided and in such a social and political upheaval. Pictures of Lake Daal, where he and some fellow officers lived on a houseboat and bought morning produce from locals who paddled up in long boats, are some of my favorites. proper men, they dressed each evening in whites for formal dinners. God Save the King! and other toasts rang out through the evening, and there were few worries (well malaria, but that's why God invented quinine and the ubiquitous gin to go with it), and they lived a rich and for the most part, happy life.

My father moved back to the Mother Country after the War. The Raj was not welcome in India nay more. But even into his Nineties, my father still spoke Urdu, and he would flash his fingers about, imitating the almost juggling movement of any Indian, and a stream of this incomprehensible language flowed from him. I marveled at him, as he approached almost any man in a turban and started talking with him.

My father taught me how to drink. Or rather, enjoy quality adult beverages. At an early age. In 1965, we moved to Germany for a six-year stint. He was by then, a retired Army Officer, doing administrative work. This was not a hard life in any way, and it seemed from my perspective as a nine year old, that life was just one round of cocktail parties, after another, to which I was never invited. Sometimes, we would take long trips to Bavaria or Austria, Switzerland, Italy, Lichtenstein, Holland, Belgium, but never those Communist-infested (and therefore, inaccesible) Eastern bloc countries.

Here in these small villages and towns and outposts, where the tourist was a welcomed person as long as you were not obnoxious, my father loved nothing more than find a winery or tasting room, and showing off his limited knowledge of wines. It was always wonderful to wander into small dank cellars and taste wines, and find out more about the process. This led to a life-time love of great wine for me. Even now, I indulge my passion for wine by going to multi-day wine and food events to coordinate the tastings, and along the way I run into old friends who are wine makers, sommeliers, restaurant owners and all those fabulous people who truly appreciate great wine and great food.

My father, along with my mother, also instilled my great love of travel. Living in Germany, I went to school in England (and that's another story in itself!). Going back to Germany for the Holidays meant short trips on weekends, or in the Summer, and sometimes in the Winter, journeys to far-off places where we would camp, or stay in lovely small inns. I have the fondest memories of a small Pension in Austria, run by a Frau Schmidt. Perched at the end of a small lake and completely surrounded by mountains, we would hike the slopes, or row creaky wood boats, fish for the most wonderful pink-bellied trout, and eat some of the finest food I have ever tasted.

How does one end a blog/commentary about one's father? It would be easy to keep going, of course. Suffice it to say he was a gentleman and had a serious twinkle in his eye for the nurses who tended to him during the last few years of his life, and yet always maintained a sense of dignity and honor, as old soldiers will do.