After reading the very poignant post on Father’s Day by The Militant Negro, it caused me to think about my own father.
John aged 17 in 1944
John aged 33 in 1960 with the three year old daughter from hell, who wanted the moon and screamed for hours because she couldn’t quite reach it.
Dad died in 1977 when I was just 19. It has often occurred to me that I unfortunately I was too young to know him as a person. We never really got along very well, and I tended to rebel against his dictatorial ways. Dad’s word was law, and I was terrified of him as a child. Even to this day I cannot be late for anything. Dad would give me a time to come in at night, and woe betide me if I was late!
He had a tough childhood in the East End…
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