A Commemoration of my father at 100

Mum & Dad on their wedding day, 1953.My real father, the man whogave me life, died less than 3 weeks before I was born and I know him onlythrough the memories of others, as a good man. But my mother, who died a weekafter my 16th birthday, married Richard Allison when I was about 5years old. On the occasion of what would have been his 100th birthday,this short piece commemorates the very special man who raised me as his ownson.
Richard Herbert Allison,to give him his full name, would have been 100 years old today. He died, aged92, on July 13th 2004, following a fall. An only child, at 18, helost his own father to cancer. A man who could not live without a woman in hislife, he married 4 times; my mother, May, being his 3rd wife. Whenhe married May, he took on my older sister, Denise, and me. May took on hisson, Barry, who is 6 weeks my senior. Later, they both brought the youngestmember of the family, Stephen, into being. We were a real family, with nodelineation caused by different parentage, and, as children, we all receivedequal love from both parents. In fact, I had what I consider an idyllicchildhood, characterised by love, adventure and humour. Richard worked at two jobsfor most of his life. He was initially a dental technician, making false teeth,and later a travelling salesman, representing a national dental supply companyand visiting customers all over Yorkshire. His second job was as a wedding photographer,often for his own business but sometimes as a stringer for other weddingphotography businesses. He loved his photography, or, more accurately, he lovedhis cameras. Not a particularly creative man, he was an excellent technicianand, in spite of a lifetime with poor eyesight, always ensured his pictureswere pin sharp. Image via WikipediaIt was from Richard that Igained an interest in photography when he rewarded me with a folding camera fora good school report at the age of 11. My mother, a talented painter, gifted mewith an eye for a picture, so I had both technical and creative influences formy photography.Richard had an interestingwar (1939-45); beginning as a medic with the army, stationed at Spurn Point andBull Fort in the mouth of the Humber Estuary. He soon went on to become a firefighter and rose to the rank of Captain, taking his regiment to France on D Dayand then travelling to Belgium and Holland, earning a 'Mention in Despatches'on the way by rescuing one of his men from a booby-trapped and burningbuilding.He was well-read, with aparticular liking for the novels of Ryder Haggard and other adventure tales. Hetaught himself French and Dutch and could still speak both even at the end ofhis life. It was from Richard that Ilearned my love of astronomy. He could point out all the major and some of theminor constellations and recognised the planets as they wandered across ourheavens. A nature lover, he could name any bird he saw, either at rest or onthe wing. And he knew all the butterflies and most moths we ever came across. Buthe had no idea about wild plants and only a basic knowledge of trees. Richard, me, Stephen, May, Barry, Denise. Beverley Westwoods, 1959A walker, he enjoyedroaming the countryside and often took us on walks, pointing out the variousbirds and insects we encountered. He'd been a cyclist for many years and,through this, developed a great fear of wasps. On one occasion, when the M1motorway had just opened, I was travelling with him when a wasp flew into theold Morris Minor he was driving. He stopped the car where it was and got out,refusing to return until the offending insect had been ejected. That there wasvirtually no traffic on the road made this more a humorous than an anxiousepisode. It was only later that I learned he'd been cycling through a piece oflocal common ground, speeding downhill across the Beverley Westwoods, when awasp had lodged itself behind his glasses and stung his eye. He'd come off thebike at speed and ripped all the muscles in his back: hence his loathing of thestriped peril.On another occasion, wewere driving in the local hills and he got out of the car and walked alongsideit as it slowly motored up the hill by itself, his skill in judging its abilityto travel with minimal power demonstrated. He took us all to the Lake Districton one memorable day. A family of five plus a Welsh Corgi, we travelled 365miles that day. At one point, we were climbing a very steep hill (1:3) and thecar stopped. We had to get out and walk as he drove up by himself, the reducedload enabling the old car to make it to the summit. He was a good, if fast,driver who'd learned his skill in the army, driving a fire engine, which healways called an 'escape'; a vehicle with a 14 foot overhanging ladder which hedrove around Birmingham during the blitz. Only once did he manage to swipe aset of traffic lights off their pole with the ladders as he swept around acorner in a hurry. And he spoke with amusement of the time he'd been given thechance to drive a tank and had managed to crush a 3 ton truck in the process.In Belgium, his adjutant had come across an abandoned US Jeep, which hadapparently simply run out of fuel. He commandeered it and used it as a staffcar for the rest of the war.He possessed a phenomenalmemory and could recite verse after verse from The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám,quote a nonsense piece of Victorian gobbledegook (In promulgating your esoteric cogitations and articulating yoursuperficial sentimentalities and philosophical and physiological observations,beware of platitudinous ponderosity.  Letyour extemporaneous decantings have intelligibility, sagacious facility, anelegant rapidity and ventriloquent verbosity. Shun pestiferous profanity both obscure and apparent.In other words, speak plainly, briefly, naturally and truthfully.  Say what you mean and mean what you say.  Do not swear or use big words.) and analternative version of 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star (Scintillate, scintillate globule vivific, fain I ponder thy purposespecific – is all I can recall, but he could quote the whole thing).In short, Richard Allisonwas a pretty remarkable man and I'm both proud and pleased that he chose totake me as his own son and raise me. He wasn't without fault and could be both dictatorialand severe at times. But he was a damned good father and I have every reason tothank him for taking that role seriously and for loving me, my siblings and mymother.