From Keith to Dad, Arthur Pickett: ‘Cos yer my da!’

Thats the in-joke between me and mine.

That phrase cropped up in an old ad for Roses chocolates; a simple reason for a simple gesture, but underneath lies a whole lot more when it comes to what I think of my father.

Very early memories of Dad, the sweat dripping from his temples as he dug the garden old-style, raking the church gravel on a Saturday afternoon, and just hanging out with him as he let off the starting gun at the yacht races at Howth harbour are but a few.

Many other snapshots of a carefree childhood with my father in my mind are too numerous to write of today, As is normal, I suppose these were easily forgotten as I entered my teens and thought less and less of the man who worked long days and came home for his habitual snooze after a well-earned dinner. I never cared to notice his upbeat nature, his inability to loose his cool and his ability to ignore my sarcasm and annoying adolescent cynicism. Maybe its part of a process by which all sons grow in parallel with their Dads, but this didn’t last forever.

When I left school and went to England for 3rd level, things began to change. Even though I returned regularly, and “Treated our house like a hotel”, he began to tell me of how he watched the planes flying in and out of Dublin Airport. He’d be sitting in the snug of the Bayside Inn looking out the window, enjoying a bit of Uncle Arthur and he said his thoughts were of me and what I was up to across the water.

I was probably enjoying a similar tipple at the same time though my mind was definitely in England.

When college came to an end and a brief stay at home followed, I travelled again and Dad came with Mum to visit me in Australia, Dad carrying with great care, a bottle of Paddy all around the world to hand to me on his arrival in Melbourne.

When my adventures abroad came to an end we spent many a good time in Donegal, painting the cottage by day and enjoying pints together in Caseys in Downings village by night. Always willing to help when others his age wouldn’t entertain the thought, he was a right hand man when my gardening business was in its infancy.

He held ladders, lowered limbs from tall trees, even carried a few sleepers in his time - dodgy heart ‘n all.

This encouragement, practical help and always positive companionship has helped develop our father-son thing into what I consider an irreplaceable relationship. It took a few years to get where it is now, but to have a Dad who I admire, enjoy the company of, and wish I was more like is a true blessing.

Many people, my wife included say “your just like your Dad!” as if this will cause me to change my ways for the better. They haven’t seen or understood what I have. That phrase is a compliment, so thank you all.

Anyway when or if this shows up in print and he sees it, he’ll probably get all embarrassed at first, he may even tell me to F off in his playful Dubliner (and thats definitely what he is) way, but hopefully he can feel proud of himself. Proud to have put up with me, set me a great example, gave me a great life and most of

importantly become one of my best friends.

He might be reading this letter some day soon and well-up a little like some auld fellas do, look up at me at the other end of the kitchen table on Kilbarrack Road and ask me “what made you do this Keith”, I’ll just have to say,

“Cos yer me Da”