Family Man

I doubt that any man ever questioned my dad’s intelligence. His methods, maybe. His parenting skills, well hell, I was pretty convinced he didn’t have any for a while. But his intelligence? No.

At my dad’s memorial service a lot of people got the chance to express their opinions about him. His oldest friends spoke of a man I knew very little about; a younger, more care free version of my dad. But still they spoke of his intelligence. His newer friends spoke of the pure success of my father and also his keen intellect. My dad was a successful man; an opportunist.

And us? Well, we spoke of all his little habits, all the things that we teased him about, all the things that we knew we’d miss the most; sayings, songs and irritating little tendencies. And for ten months now I have only been missing those things.

That was until the other day.

I was sitting in our old ‘ska donkla’ of a bakkie, next to my mom. We were rattling up and down over the dust road that leads to Komati Gorge, the lodge my dad and my step-mom created. As usual my mom and I chattered away happily. I didn’t tell her, but I think she knew that I was a little apprehensive about heading back there, after all this farm was as close to a home as I ever got.

Having divorced parents who share custody and being in boarding school isn’t exactly conducive to getting settled in.

This farm was my dad’s creation and a huge part of him went into making this lodge the beautiful, successful haven that it is.

But as we rounded the last corner, and I saw the lodge buildings surrounded by green grass and beautiful flower beds gently scattered around the river and the trout dam, I caught my breath. It was just as stunning as ever. I knew then I had nothing to fear.

The lodge is now run by two wonderful managers and we hardly ever come here anymore, but there are still traces of our family. Family photos on the walls, our dogs’ paw prints in the concrete, my step-mom’s amazing ability to match colours and textures. It took a trip back here for me to realize that this farm was a huge part of my life, and I had missed it.

Not only was this farm home but in every building, every dam and every flower bed I can see the pure genius that was my dad. Each little bit of this farm holds a memory for me; a memory of my dad, of our family.

Because he was, in his own kind of way, a brilliant man, a family man.