What can I tell you about my dad? The things that come to mind are an impish energy and an infectious enthusiasm for life. Dad was often full of beans and ideas. He was not someone who could sit still easily. He had two main settings: full blast, or asleep. He was prone to nodding off pretty much anywhere, including once when he was interviewing someone for a job. And during a noisy performance of the musical Return to the Forbidden Planet.
His creativity and desire to try things out took us on all manner of adventures. Camping in a very noisy part of Paris so we could visit a Henry Moore exhibition (one of his many enthusiasms). Or the time we went for a walk in the Lake District, and even the fog descending over the Old Man of Coniston would not deter him from continuing on. He did admit defeat when he realised had gone the wrong way. That was when I learnt he was afraid of heights. The rest of the family shimmied over a short stretch of rock face to continue on their way. He and I took a longer route round.
He was also incredibly supportive and encouraging, even at times when my life was chaotic and not panning out as either of us had hoped. He was, in his way, a feminist. When my Mum started her training as a vicar, he cheered her on and supported her with the people management aspects of her leadership role. He hoped that when he left the YMCA in England and Wales that his successor would be a woman.
He was hugely impressed by Carlos Sanvee, who is from Togo in West Africa and became Dad’s successor to his role at the worldwide YMCA. He invited Carlos and his young family round for dinner when Mum and Dad were living in Geneva. They probably wanted to make our guests feel welcome, and so we ended up playing a silly game that involved making animal noises. I don’t think I will ever forget the startled look on Carlos’s son’s face when Dad was clowning around on the floor, pretending (badly) to be an elephant. Dad was definitely drawn to the silly and ridiculous. He would have agreed with Oscar Wilde that life was too important to take seriously.
He was also very principled. He wasn’t one to talk much about his faith, but it underpinned his approach to life. In recent years, he took his duties as a church warden very seriously. He had a clear moral code and would quietly express his disapproval if we didn’t meet it. I once withdrew an offer on a flat, not thinking of the cost and inconvenience I caused the vendors. He was clearly disappointed that I had let them down. He frowned, and sighed, but didn’t say much more than that.
He also disapproved of people not paying their train fares. “It’s theft”, he would, say, emphatically, his training as a lawyer showing through. He was not, however, averse to bending board game rules if he thought it would benefit him and not do others much harm.
His natural charm got him out of many a pickle and persuaded countless numbers of people to get behind one of his seemingly endless ideas and projects. He had an entrepreneurial streak that, combined with his boundless energy, meant he took great delight in seeing his ideas come to fruition. In recent years, he was very pleased to have got his church a free card reader that allows people to donate.
Like all of us, my dad was not perfect. He came home from work early on in his career, baffled that he had made one of the secretaries at his law firm cry. When he told Mum what he had said, she informed him that she was not surprised. Her emotional intelligence helped him develop his.
In recent years he had slowed down and had both his hips replaced. The last time we saw each other, he declined a glass of French sparkling wine, a kind he was very fond of. I didn’t know he had stopped drinking because of his acid reflux. Did he feel better, I asked? He looked rueful and said: “I don’t feel worse”.
It has been the most profound shock to learn of how he died. And that he has died at all seems unreal. But it gives me a lot of comfort to know he was doing something he loved. He died as he lived: a ‘risk enthusiast’, refusing to give into any notions of being cautious or living a partly lived life. He also was perhaps afraid of losing his memory any more than he already had. It cannot have been easy to have witness his mother’s slide into dementia.
There are so many more stories and memories. I don’t want to stop writing this because it will make his death real. So I shall think of it as an ‘au revoir’, not ‘adieu’. And hope that wherever he is, he is at peace, with a glass of good wine and organising his next caper. Cheers to you, Dad xxx
Lizzie Nightingale Skinner
14th July 2022