April 28, 2008
Yesterday was my late father's birthday.
I remember him with such warmth and love.
My dad was physically and emotionally abused by his father. (A poor man who was bitter, angry and displaced by the Second World War.)
During one fit of temper my grandfather, Mike, backhanded my father (who was only two-years old) off his high chair and almost broke his jaw.
To save my father's life, my grandmother sent little Jackie Romain off to boarding school at the age of six. He was put on a train and sent on a sixteen-hour journey, by himself, to a school in King Williams Town in South Africa. (My dad was sent all alone! I don't know how my grandparents could have done that to a scared little six year-old. I can just imagine this bewildered, curly-headed small boy, with his little suitcase and his favorite tartan blanket, sitting by himself for all that time on his first train journey. Just thinking about it makes want to cry.)
Dale College, the boarding school, became my father's home and family. It also became his passion. He played on every sports team. He loved the school so much that he continued to reminisce about it with fondness until the day he died.
My father spent the last two years of his life writing a book about his life at the school.
On the morning of his death he came downstairs and said to my mum, “I've finished writing the book. All I have to do is type in the last page and I'm done.” (My dad wrote the book in longhand and then typed in the pages.)
He never got to type the last page because he died a few hours later of an aneurism. He was only sixty-seven.
He was in the parking lot of my aunt's apartment after visiting her. He had started the car and was ready to get my mum from the old folks home where she was visiting my grandmother.
A man found my dad in the car slumped over the steering wheel. The car was still running. The man said he thought my dad was sleeping.
I got a call at six in the morning and was on a flight from the United States back to South Africa by noon. It was the longest 18 hours of my life.
The next day, in a daze, I walked into my dad's studio and found his computer still on. The cursor was blinking on the screen, patiently waiting for the final words of his book, which were hand-written on a yellow pad lying next to the computer.
I typed in the last page for my dad.
In honor of Jack Romain, I would like to share that page:
“The big wooden doors of the only home I know clang shut forever behind me. I look straight ahead for fear of turning around and forcing my way back through the closed doors.
But the urge is too strong.
I turn and look longingly over my shoulder at Dale College, the boarding school that has been my home for the past twelve years.
A home that saved me from my father whose temper almost took my life on a number of occasions.
A home filled with school friends and teachers that became my family.
A home that sheltered me from a distant memory filled with anger, bitterness, poverty and emptiness.
A home that nurtured me, comforted me and gave me strength to face the unknown journey upon which I am about to embark.
I sigh, turn away from my childhood and begin to walk toward my destiny…”
- From Blainey Junction by Jack Romain (As yet unpublished.)
My father died just two hours after writing these words.
Happy birthday Dad, and thank you for creating the spark which continues to ignite the passion within my soul.
Thank you for being the candle that continues to light my way.
You're not here…but you're always there.
Posted by trevor at April 28, 2008 02:21 PM
Comments
What an amazing story. Thank you for sharing this poignant and beautiful memory. And happy birthday to your Pop.
Posted by: bonita sarita at April 28, 2008 03:26 PM