A Tribute to my Dad Tim Crux I learned a great deal from Dad over the years. One of my earliest memories of the kind of impression that he was already leaving on me would have been when I was 3 or 4 years old. Mum would probably have a more vivid memory of this than I, being that It was over 30 years ago! It was when we were living in Waterhouse Street, which was Mum and Dad’s first house together. Dad would have been working hard to pay the bills as he always did; and being that I hadn’t started infant school yet, and by this point mum would have been nursing baby Sarah, we probably spent quite a bit of time at home. I remember wanting to go to work like Dad, and furthermore telling Mum that I was going to work and that I would see her later. Then I would get onto my tricycle and travel to the end of the garden to start my shift. Unfortunately, I hadn’t yet quite developed the concept of what constituted a full day’s work. So probably after 5 or 10 minutes worth of “work”, which was probably just rolling around in the mud, I would then make my journey back to the house and back to Mum, telling her all about my day and probably asking for some juice or a biscuit or something, then back to work for another shift! So began a journey of just wanting to be like Dad, and showing a great deal of interest in anything relating to my old man. When we moved into Sharpington Close I was about 5 years old. I still remember the first time I stumbled into the front room and how big the space felt in comparison to our previous house. It didn’t take me long to discover Dad’s ‘Technics’ HI FI, and subsequently his CD collection, at the time probably much to his dismay! I suppose eventually, after much instruction and warning to look after what wasn’t mine, I was allowed to listen to this new-found treasure trove. I consider myself extremely lucky to have had a Father that had such good taste in music; and as a result, I received an early education on what good ‘classic rock’ music truly was. This ignited a passion within me that is still with me to this day, and will never die. As long as I draw breath the love I have for my Dad and the love that we shared for good music, among many other things, will be a constant reminder for me of how great that man truly was! Every time I listen to a piece of good music, particularly good rock music, I will be listening to it with my Dad. I will always hark back to those golden days of listening to Dad’s old ‘Fleetwood Mac’, ‘Dr Hook’, ‘Genesis’, ‘Free’, ‘Cream’, ‘Queen’ and ‘Led Zeppelin’ albums. Even Mum’s ‘Enya’ and ‘Rod Stewart’ albums. Dad knew a good drummer when he heard one. He used to roadie around as a young man himself with his best friend Ian Bearpark, who was a pretty mean drummer playing in rock bands back in the day, so dad was no stranger to the live music scene. Dad helped me a tremendous amount when I started playing drums at the age of 10. By the age of 13 I was gigging around with a local band and Dad was back to being a roadie for a drummer again! He would be instrumental for me to be able to grow and mature as a drummer over the following 6 years. If it wasn’t for my Dad I wouldn’t be half the drummer that I am today. Whenever I get back behind my drum kit again, I’m gonna play extra loud just to make sure that he can hear me! Dad was an extremely smart and wise man. I still remember the help he gave me when I was learning my times tables as a youngster, and further still with algebra and formula. Dad had an incredible natural ability for mathematical equations; an ability I wish I had inherited from him, but unfortunately maths was never my strong suit, so I always knew how smart my old man was. I still remember the day when I also realised how wise my Father was. (at least by my standards) We were having one of our many conversations about who we thought was the best rock drummer of all time. This was a particularly interesting topic shared by the both of us, as he could see the love and passion for anything drum related growing in me, as my interest for my newly found hobby grew and grew. I remember my Dad saying that, in his opinion, despite the commonly recognised reputation of the drummer ‘Keith Moon’, of the band ‘The Who’, and his legendary status; he thought that in fact the drummer ‘John Bonham’ of the band ‘Led Zeppelin’, was a far superior drummer, both technically and musically. Oh, what a wise man my Father truly was! As this was an opinion truly shared between a loving Father and his drummer boy son. I know that Uncle Philip may still not agree on this particular matter, but sorry Phil, we’ll just have to agree to disagree on this one! My Dad was a very strong man. I remember as a young boy how in awe I was of my Father’s physical strength. His strength being one of his many attributes that would inspire me to endeavour to be able to equal. I suppose in a way to try and gain as much respect as possible from the man who was my hero. I remember, probably as an 8 or 9-year-old boy, the first significant memory of my old man proving his physical prowess to not just me, but scores of others, was at lads and dads camp, when I was a young boy scout. The camp would be split into 4 collective groups of Fathers and their Sons, to compete against each other over those 3 or 4 days in various different events. One of those events was the ultimate ‘Tug of War’. An event favoured by many because of its ultimate test of strength and endurance, on a very tribal level, between two rival groups of very competitive Fathers and their Sons. One particular year our group was struggling. Dad had always suffered with bad knees and his strength was just not being utilised, with him being mid-pack, and all our efforts being coordinated poorly by an out of sync anchor man. (Heavy guy at the back of the line that coordinates effort) We were one game down out of a best of three and staring defeat in the face. Dad went to the back of the line and asked the current anchor man whether he’d mind him having a go, to which he agreed. So, with that my old man picked up the slack, swung the rope around his waist, tied off, and we all braced for the second war. Dad leaned back into his new role, taking the pressure off of his knees and utilising the full force of his 17/18 stone frame, and we went to war. Not that there was much of one! As because of our new-found strength at anchor, coupled with my Dad’s cohesive efforts, through his calculated chants of “Heave!” to help lift moral and bind everyone together in a collective synchronisation of effort, we rolled over the opposition and won the next two rounds! We went on to win the tug of war competition that year, and subsequently the entire competition fell to us that time round; and without trying to sound too biased (but failing miserably!) I think we owed a lot of our success that year to my Dad. But that was my Dad all over. He had always been my anchor man, all through life. And he always will be my anchor man. As I’m huffing and puffing, sweating and pulling my way through life I know that he’s still behind me, all the way; lending me his strength and shouting words of encouragement as I pick myself up and continue to try to live my life in a way that will honour his memory. So, I always knew from a very young age how much of a hard worker my Dad was. Then I would later find out how smart he was, his seemingly limitless levels of intelligence would never cease to amaze me throughout life. Then I would find out how strong this man was, he was an absolute man mountain, a tower of strength! It took me the best part of 10 – 12 years of serious effort to finally beat my old man in an arm wrestle! I was 21 years of age, and even then, I think he let me win. But before that milestone of achievement, from a starry-eyed Son, there were plenty more pearls of wisdom that I would learn from this wise old wizard. One that I will miss more than most is that age old cliché of Father and Son fishing. But for me this idea could never be overused. For me it was the closest thing to heaven on earth! My Dad and I, on the banks of a calm lake in late spring. The sun on our backs, lines in the water, beer in the keep net, and the pair of us laughing and joking and talking about what the future may hold. If there was one memory that I would want to get stuck on repeat, over and over again, then that one would be the one for me. If my memory serves me correctly the first beer I was ever allowed to drink was given me by my old man, while we were on holiday in the south of France, fishing by the side of a river. I was about 10 years old (probably much to Mum’s dismay, if she ever knew!) The beer was one of those stumpy bottles of 33’ export, and I still remember how disgusting I thought it tasted! But I persevered and drank it, whilst trying to hide the distaste from my Father, because all I wanted to do, was to be like my Dad. During those invaluable life lessons from my hero, of which there were many over the years, he would teach me many things by the side of a lake. He taught me how to tackle up my fishing line, he taught me how to tie my first blood knot to attach the hook. He taught me how to find the depth of the water that we were fishing. He taught me how to read the water, for trails of bigger fish, or for signs of late, seasonal spawning. But more importantly, I learned that apart from my Dad being hardworking, smart, wise, strong and loving, my Father was also an extremely patient and cunning man when it came to stalking fish in a water. But he was also patient and cunning when it came to raising his 3 children. It was because of my Dad that I was able to catch my first double figure carp; another moment of triumph for a youngster who was able to pick up his prize and show his Dad that what he was teaching his Son was working! Truth be told I’ve never had a better teacher than my Father. Over the years he showed all 3 of us kids his constant, unwavering patience and ingenious methods of loving and educating us in so many different aspects of life. These are lessons and values that are so precious to me. I will cling onto these glorious memories of my Dad with all the strength that he gives me. I will take them to the grave, when the time is right for me to see my Father again. I know exactly where my Dad is right now. He is reconvened with his Mother and Father. My Dad’s Father, my Grandfather, was to my Dad what my Dad is to me, he’s my hero. My Dad, like me was fortunate enough to have had a Father who was so inspirational in everything that he did. In fact, it’s not until I start to look back on life in that way, that I begin to realise just how important the bond of a loving family truly is. I feel so blessed to have been graced with such a loving and supportive Father, and my Dad truly was. I see so much of Grandad Crux in my Dad. There is one more memory, out of a countless well of memories, that I want to share. We had not long moved into Sharpington Close, Mum and Dads second house. I think I was only 4 or 5 at the time, so I suppose I still didn’t really know a lot of what was going on. Mum will probably have a better recollection of the year. Dad wanted a doorway put in to link the kitchen to the garage. This meant knocking through a load bearing wall, a job that would’ve required expert knowledge and the hiring of a tradesman, so the job could be carried out safely and properly. At the time Mum and Dad probably saw this as a cost that they would’ve rather avoided. However hardworking, smart, wise, strong, patient and cunning my Father was, one of his most adhering qualities was his humility. He knew that this job was beyond his field of expertise. So he called on the man that could help him with this job, and that was his Dad. He humbled himself and went to his Father for help. I still remember vividly to this day the awe-inspiring feeling that moment gave me, when I stood in the kitchen and gazed on in wonder at the two silhouetted figures behind the draped polythene barrier, that the two of them had put up to protect the kitchen from dust and grime. My Dad and Grandad worked together to get the job done. I can still hear the deep murmurs of their soft, Northern tones, as they discussed calculations and plans to see the task through. This Northern accent that my Dad never seemed to speak in, but whenever he was with his Father, who hailed from Rochdale, he would always seem to adopt. He loved that man so much. And I love my old man so much. And I still remember, while probably being ushered away by Mum, for her fear of me getting too close to the workman and getting hurt; but all the while just wanting to be the other side of that polythene dust barrier with my Dad, helping him with his work. Little did I know at the time, but 20 years or so down the line, I would be doing exactly that. By that point I was a qualified carpenter and into the general building game. I guess all those hours with Dad in his garage as a youngster, learning the basics of wood work would finally pay off. And looking back on it, yet again the practical knowledge that my old man was teaching me, just as a matter of course, was proving so useful in helping me get to the point where I could finally start giving something back to the man who gave me so much life in the first place. After Dad had retired, Mum and Dad had finally realised their lifelong dream of being able to buy a house down in Cornwall, so they could settle in a place that held so many happy memories for the pair of them. There were lots of lovely family holidays down in that part of the world over the years. I still remember how happy the both of them were once they had finally sealed the deal on the house, and they knew where they were heading, they were transformed! Over the next few years we would all be travelling to and fro, helping Mum and Dad with the many jobs that needed to be done before they could move in. My Brother Pete was also a qualified electrician by this point. So, Dad had his own little construction team in the family. Our first major job on ‘Southwinds’, Mum and Dad’s new future home, was to remove a load bearing wall and chimney breast that divided what is now mum’s glorious kitchen. That meant Dad and his two boys going at it, hard at the grind stone! I couldn’t help but think of all those years ago, watching and listening to my hero and his Dad doing exactly what Dad, Pete and I were now doing together, all be it on a slightly larger scale! We all had such a good time mucking in together, helping to build a little version of Heaven on earth for Mum and Dad. I really do believe that my Father now knows the real thing. He was always very headstrong, one of his many qualities that only made me love him all the more. He was always very headstrong concerning his views regarding faith, and he was entitled to that, as we all are. But I hope with all my heart that in this one instance, he was wrong. I hope and pray that he’s looking down on all of us, with that big, beautiful and gracious smile of his; looking forward to the time that we can all be together again. I love you Dad. Now and forever. Your loving Son. Tom