Martin Bridgeman

Anyone who’s lost a parent will know the bittersweet or deeply sad feeling that comes with a day like today. Mick Bridgeman, my father, was a gentleman and a gentle man and much more; a dedicated third level teacher (of wood turning and wood machinery) that took time over every student he taught; a father who showed me the value of his wisdom and love every day; a fine singer who overcame a serious accident to continue to play the piano, usually at parties but sometimes just for himself in the front room or ‘the parlour’ as it was known back then.

In one of life’s occasional cruelties he suffered a stroke and died from it and other complications when I was just 13. It was a heavy burden (in retrospect) but with Maisie, his wife and my mother, we soldiered on, missing him deeply. I still miss him and wonder how life would have been if he’d been around for my teens and beyond. I feel that my kids could have learnt so much from him too but it was not to be.

I remember so little really as I was still a child really when he died but I remember a few things. I remember seeing him work, crafting wood in to marvellous shapes, fixing and repairing, covered in wood chips. I remember nervous students calling to the house before job interviews looking for advice and his taking the time to listen and guide with Maisie providing the tea and sometimes some of her own special brand of common sense and wisdom. I also remember his deep love of the Beatles’ music especially for Paul McCartney, who had, as he said once ‘a way with a tune’. He heard their harmonies and arrangements in a way not typical of someone of his generation and wouldn’t hear of anyone dismissing them as just a pop group. That’s stayed with me. Ask anyone who knows me…

He taught me that it is easier to treat people with respect than suspicion, that a kind and encouraging word carries more weight than negative criticism and that being ‘nice’ is not a sign of weakness nor a fault. It’s about love in its truest human sense.

He was also not my ‘real’ father.

Mick adopted me when he had been through the long sadness of trying with Maisie to have their own children. They were a bit older than my peer’s parents and I often think that I got a little extra wisdom thrown in as a result. They loved me and raised me and did everything that they felt was right for me, like any parent would, blood or no blood.

For anyone who’s adopted and has not met their birth parents, both Mothers’ and Fathers’ Day carry an extra payload. It has not been my experience to meet with either of mine and so the story is not complete in that respect. They had their story, I just have not figured or shared in it. But I was loved in all the ways that mattered.

Now I am a father myself. I’m not overly sentimental about things but while the yearly presents, the peace (the being left along has its own joy sometimes), the childlike breakfasts and cards are always welcome it is the true joy of seeing your kids grow and follow their dreams that sustains me every day and especially on a day like today. There is no better present than that. You do your best. It’s all you can do. It’s up to them now and it is as challenging now to allow them to travel their own road as it was to step back and let them take their first step, their first cycle without the training wheels, the first concert, the exams and whatever life sends them.

Happy Father’s Day to my fellow fathers. It’s a gift in itself. Enjoy what’s left of the day. See you next year