Last year after one of my rare visits to Dad in the nursing home in which he was living I blogged about him. I felt I needed to mark his existence somewhere, even if it was in cyberspace, to keep a record of him somehow. I wrote him into my own story so that he had somewhere to belong, so people would know that he was there and something about who he was. Not many people read my blog, and not many people will know that John Jackson Chrisp died last Wednesday. What matters is that somebody knows, that we know.
Eulogies are usually full of all the positive things about someone’s life and this one will be no different. But some things must be said to clear the air, forgive any remaining hurts and send John Chrisp on his way freely with love and without judgement.
It must be said that our early days as a family weren’t great. I believe Dad tried but in truth he didn’t take naturally to fatherhood. But there were some good times, like many days and evenings spent at the Albany Light Opera Company where both parents were involved in productions. Mum painted sets, directed and whipped up costumes, they both rehearsed their parts. Danny and I would often raid the dress-up box (I think this is also where Danny picked up his fancy dress partying habit of wearing dresses) Dad was always playing one of the ‘bad-arse’ characters in the Gilbert and Sullivan shows, which I think was down to Mum’s casting.
The closest thing to domestic bliss I remember is a vision of Dad lying in front of the fire at home with GladWrap on his chest while Mum slopped plaster on him to make breast plates for some show. One of the best gifts my parents gave me was that exposure to the arts. Dad was a creative person, he loved opera and classical music and used to drag Danny and I off to the ballet. I think it was a bit lost on us as we giggled at the men in tights. He tolerated our childish antics with patience, even when Danny brought a whoopee cushion in once – Dad could be quite indulgent at times.
From my perspective ours was a difficult and complex relationship but Dad wouldn't say that because like a lot of fathers he put his daughter on a pedestal. I don’t honestly know if he thought he was a good father. I suspect he would say he was. I am not being unkind when I say that he was quite self-obsessed, impulsive and compulsive. He was an interesting father and I think he tried to be a good father. As an adult I realise that he did his best, which is all any of us can ever really do.
He had the most amazing practical square hands which fortunately I inherited, along with an excellent sense of balance. He and I would walk on our hands at the beach. He could do things with those hands, he crafted beautiful ropework, from which he made his living for a great part of his working life. His compulsive behaviour manifested as an obsession with perfection, the positive outcome of which meant that his work was quite exquisite. I know I inherited that obsessiveness, which of course is always a double-edged sword because nothing ever lives up to expectations. I suspect that this was the source of the frustrations in his life.
He had a truly eccentric sense of humour and a wonderful quirky imagination, which my brother and I both share. When we were on a roll we would all be in stitches laughing. Dad and I could talk for hours. We got on so well as adults and had a similar perverse view of the world (though he was slightly more paranoid). Being a girl I was indulged much more than my brother but Dad was proud of us both, and although he didn’t often express it, I know he loved us.
He was always so fit, obsessive about his health like everything else. When he was diagnosed with a tumour on the side of his head he researched natural remedies with his usual thoroughness and decided that B 19 (apricot kernels, basically cyanide) was the cure. So great was his fear of doctors and surgery that instead of taking the recommended dose he consumed quite large amounts. I am all for natural remedies but I do wonder if he suffered the effects of that. He certainly defeated the cancer but not too long afterwards was diagnosed with Parkinson's. The rest, as they say, is history.
Dad never recovered from the break-up of his own nuclear family which unfortunately made him fear getting too close to his grandchildren - which is sad because he might have been grateful and delighted that they are carrying the family gene pool in his own mother’s red hair. There is not much else to mark his 77 years, just Danny and I and Danny’s girls but maybe that’s more than enough.
When someone dies we tend to feel powerless and there doesn’t seem to be much we can do. I take heart from the Buddhists who maintain that sending kind thoughts to the deceased for 49 days after their departure will help the soul on its way to the next world, whatever you believe that to be. During this period I am keeping a vigil and I am simply asking this: that when you think of John Jackson Chrisp in the remaining 39 days and even thereafter, think kindly of him and give him the most precious gift it is within your power to give - your forgiveness, your love and your compassion.
