My father didn't learn to read or write properly until he left school.
Each year, as far back as I can recall, from December 1st we would all sit down together each evening and take it in turns to read 'A Christmas Carol'.
Only my daddy lacked enough confidence with such a rich, expansive and challenging text. So, for the most part, he would simply sit with us and listen quietly.
When he did read, it was always brief; sometimes he would stammer or become confused, or embarrassed by losing his place etc.
But in the later years, the very last years, he eventually taught himself to read.
He began to devour language and words - the sillier or more bizarre the better. He told me it was just like Frank McCourt's description - they were like jewels in his mouth.
our last Christmas together, when we knew he was ill, but had no way to ever comprehend what was to come and shatter our lives, he sat and read the lovely Christmas book with us. And it was a joy.
And he wouldn't stop.
He wouldn't take turns.
He just kept on reading like a little child in school who has mastered something they feel so proud of, so happy about, that through no malice at all, they refuse to share with the other children or allow them to join in.
We all watched my dad read with absolute pride and delight.
Each time he came to the end of a paragraph, or the beginning of a character's line designated to someone else (because we naturally shared out roles, with my funny brother, when we were small, always adamant that he WOULD be the ghost of Christmas future and point away with all of his six year old might, before remembering that his was the ghost who did not utter a single word throughout the entire book), who had been patiently waiting their turn to read, we could only silently cry with laughter as he rushed quickly into the next sentence, the next paragraph, the next page, to try and prevent his new found experience of joy being stopped.
And I recall looking at my mother and brother with laughter in our green, grey and blue eyes to the point of crying with the endearing funniness of it all, while trying to gently remind him of when it was time for another one of us to read.
But for the most part, none of us had the heart to do it.
So we just listened and watched and loved him. Always.
What a love, what a sweetheart 💖
Mrs Conroy, you chose my father well.
❤️💙💚💛💜
