My father would be breaking into song. He did that often. On a fine day, well, ‘Grab your coat and get your hat/ Leave your worry on the doorstep/Just direct your feet/To the sunny side of the street.’
He enjoyed Flanagan and Allen and would try to echo the gravelly harmonies of Allen (or was it Flanagan ) – ‘Any umbrellas any umbrellas to mend today?/He’ll patch up your troubles/Then go on his way singing ..’
I wonder now whether this was his way of coping with ‘the blues’ but he loved the songs from the musicals and films of his day. This week, especially, the song would have to be ‘The bells are ringing, for me and my gal.’ The lyric would apply equally to any bridegroom of any class.
Sometimes, as a teenager, I was embarrassed at my dad’s tunefulness. No doubt that’s normal but I hope he understood. My family is frequently embarrassed by me and I understand.
With the Royal wedding and the riot of May blossom, flowering early near me, my father comes to mind very vividly.
Why the May blossom? The Spring before he died he and I went collecting the flowers to make into wine, according to a country recipe. We brewed it but my father never lived to drink it. My grandmother, a farmer’s daughter, would not have May flowers in the house. They were bad luck she said. I’m sure there was no causal connection here but mention it only in case anyone is tempted to make such a link.
There are so many family memories of this time, 33 years ago, which is why, as this blog is very much about memories, I mention it.