My Father's Ties

When I was little my father worked late quite often, or so it seemed to me. I have these lovely dreamy memories of him coming home late at night and checking in to see if I was safe asleep - of course I wasn't - my eyes and smile wide at this special quiet time with him.

We had some sweet and silly conversations, with me all tucked up under my sesame-street quilt, the room all soft-lit warmly by my humphrey b. bear lamp. Important conversations. Such as, what I should call my yellow teddy bear with the rainbow-striped vest. We called him Fremantle, because Dad grew up there and his love for that town was my love. And, of course, the Beard Conversation.

"Do you like my new beard?"

"No! I don't think so."

"Let me give you a kiss to check."

Squeals of delighted tickly laughter.

"No Daddy. It is far too tickly and scratchy. I do not like it."

"So, I should shave it off?"

"Yes."

And of course, more tickly hugs and kisses followed.

He didn't shave.

In fact, he still has his beard.

But as least I have the memory of those late night, serious and silly conversations.

The other thing I now have is his original 1970's ties. I have longed for these ties for most of my life. I used to hide in my parents wardrobe. I would open the white vinyl case that held all of my mother's jewellery, delicately resting my fingers on those magical jewels and dreaming of being so very grown up. I would trace the patterns on the ties, thrilling at the bold colour combinations and patterns. Wardrobes are wonderful places for dreaming.

And now I have those ties in my own wardrobe. It was as simple as asking.

"Dad, could I have these ties?"

"Of course, I'm never going to wear them again."

And now I have the joy of wearing supremely funky ties whenever I choose. And the tiny thrill in my heart whenever I finish the knot, of being connected to my father through our love of these slips of fabric.