Happy Fathers Day.

 Happy Fathers Day. 

Of course my late and lovely dad was the greatest, loveliest and finest dad on the planet. Today we wax lyrical about our dads, the paternal influence who was always there with the most sympathetic shoulder to cry on when our callow and innocent youth just wanted to have a chat, to unburden ourselves. We would always express all of our pent up frustrations when we'd had a rotten day at school or the bullies were ganging up on us. Our dad was the kindest, gentlest and most compassionate dad of them all, strong, sturdy and always embracing his family with the warmest of hugs, listening attentively to our youthful stresses and anxieties. 

So here's my effusive homage to my dad, Manny Frederick Morris or to quote the Yiddish vernacular Mendel Ben Fifish. Born Emmanuel Frederick Morris to a Hammersmith shopkeeper who plied a respectable trade near his family home in Shepherds Bush, Manny grew up to be a friendly, most engaging, cheerful and gregarious man. In 1961, he married my equally as adorable mum Sybil Rusman and they went on to bring up a family who were immensely proud to call him our dad. Everybody called him Manny because he was their neighbour, their charmer, the life and soul of any party. 

For all the ups and downs, the trials and tribulations, the triumphs and glory days of happiness, my dad shone and excelled, always seeing the brighter side of life when the darkness seemed destined to swallow him up. Of course there were the difficulties and complications, the moments we'd rather choose to forget but knew they were there for a reason. They were character building days, hardening and conditioning my brother and I to the tough times, those deeply uncomfortable days, weeks and months when life challenged the whole family. 

The childhood memories are of course warm, affectionate and enduring. There were the endless evenings when, on returning home from work, my dad would sit down with my mum and I in the kitchen, eat our meal before dad would rush upstairs to show his doting son the essential rudiments of male grooming. Suddenly, a sharp razor blade would emerge from the bathroom cabinet, bottles of shaving foam oozing naturally from the bottle and carefully if painstakingly cut away the bristle from his chin, pencilling away enthusiastically at the grey sideburns from a thick shock of charcoal black hair.

But then were the amusing moments when my dad would suddenly produce an ordinary HB pencil and then gently scratch away with the said pencil. Firstly, there was the already grey moustache that my dad would hilariously pencil in as if privately self conscious and awkward when looking at the distinguished looking grey that mum and I would never object to. We were never ashamed of the way dad ever looked because he was always fashion conscious and smart, often shampooing his grey Ford Cortina and washing it with meticulous attention to detail. Sunday mornings were memorably special for him.

The truth is that my dad insisted on elegance of the highest order, shirt, suit and tie for every occasion. Every time the family set out for a golden Sunday summer afternoon by Southend on Sea, now elevated to city status, my dad, without fail, would appear with the most stunning navy jacket with a naval insignia above the lapel. He would always wear the most fetching tie and trousers, clothes that would have graced our local Valentines Park bowling green and a contented smile on his bronzed face.

And then there were those endless summer Sunday mornings when my dad would think nothing of lying back on the family garden deckchair and of course, the family he treasured so much. Meanwhile, in the corner of our living room, our record player, stereo and tape recorder would be turned up to full volume. Now the dulcet, honeyed voice of the incomparable Frank Sinatra would belt out with stirring conviction My Way and I've Got You Under My Skin. What a glorious feeling it must have been for my dad. The whole of Cranley Road had now become transformed into a crooner's paradise, a powerful symphony orchestra of the great and good, from Tony Bennett, Sammy Davies Junior to Glen Miller. 

How could you I forget my dad and I accompanying my late grandma Dora on the most sedate and leisurely walk back to our Ilford home? Grandma Dora, now an elderly figure, still lived in a flat in Shepherd's Bush  where the lights would always be switched on reluctantly when you had negotiated four flights of steps. In fact there was a mezzanine in between the first floor where a dim light flickered on quite happily. These were indeed halcyon days.

But grandma Dora was a robust, indomitable and formidable Russian,  with the iron constitution of a woman who must have seen such tragedy and disaster during the First World War. She now travelled right across London from West to East without a murmur of complaint. She must have been in her early 80s when I was a child but there was always something of the steely matriarch about her, something non nonsense and uncompromising that never failed to impress. 

My dad though loved the company of close friends and they were legion. They were next door neighbours, friends who had been accumulated from his days of working in a Hackney menswear shop. Alf was an accomplished saxophonist who used to play to his heart's content in a local band and my dad truly valued Alf  as a close friend and a fellow salesman. There was Sandy, the black cab driver who used to live at the other end of Cranley Road, confiding in my dad with petty problems perhaps but then enjoying the delights and fruits of small talk. 

And perhaps notably there was Brian, another black cab driver, with whom my dad would form the closest of friendship, an alliance that became stronger by the day. Brian and Ruth would live across the road from us but Brian and my dad were like brothers, inseparable cousins, chatting, joking and laughing incessantly at the world and what must have been a world of troubled humanity. 

But my dad would always have time for everything and everybody. At work he would invariably find things to do even if there was nothing to do but tidy up ties and shirts in the shop window. My dad would never be bored because he had to be preoccupied with some activity. He would stand nobly in the corner of the shop, cigarette clenched neatly between his fingers and cup of tea in hand, impervious to global wars, student uprisings or revolutions that threatened to tear apart the fabric of society. 

My dad was the man I would always race out of the family home and wait for patiently to turn around the corner of Cranley Road. Now I'd become desperate to see and welcome him home as if he was the best childhood pal you could possibly imagine. Dads always gave unconditional love, tucking you into bed solicitously, switching off the lights and remembering to look after his wife Sybil, you and your brother Mark. Dads always cherished the family unit and his son just there. Rosh Hashanahs and Yom Kippurs were all about the privacy and intimacy of family life, of eating and drinking together as one.

Finally, dad heartbreakingly passed away and died on the day after my birthday in 2005. He'd smoked since he was a teenager. He never allowed alcohol to pass his lips apart from a discreet half lager and shandy on special occasions. But he was the one who, on one Kol Nidre evening, set out with me on the way to a shul and then comically wrestled with a disobedient umbrella while defying the blustery gale force winds. Dad would swim with me delightfully in the unpredictable Southend sea and do his utmost to savour every second, minute, week, month and year. For my dad was the most outstanding dad, revelling in your achievements, never disappointing and the loveliest dad in the world. Happy Fathers Day dad. My brother and I will always think of you. Love you loads dad.