The last day of winter

In most years, the anniversary of my father’s death coincides with the last day of the meteorological winter, 28th February. So it does today on what is, amazingly to me, the tenth anniversary of his passing. I am usually woeful at remembering anniversaries of family deaths because the only purpose such dates serve is to make us sad but for some reason, today’s anniversary is writ large in my mind. It’s not that I haven’t got over his death – I have – but I feel we had so much unfinished business, as they say.

I had a somewhat dysfunctional upbringing, with my Dutch mother bringing me up in England whilst my English father did his best from Canada. I don’t blame either of them for the mess my life became, as I wandered aimlessly from pillar to post, growing up in a fog of autodidacticism and trial and error. I don’t blame parents for not staying together “for the sake of the children” so when my parents’ marriage unraveled when I was very young their parting of the waves was the right thing to do. That it led to their only son being required to make life-affecting and life-changing decisions on the basis of little or no parental guidance could only end one way and that was not a good way. Still, there’s no one to blame.  Back to Anthony Johansen who left us ten years ago today.

He had been ill for some months when I got the call in the middle of the night to say he had died. I had dithered throughout the period of his illness, wondering whether to pay him a visit in the Ottawa hospital. In the end, I didn’t go. The reasons were, for me, complex and stress-inducing. Instead, a week after his passing, I flew to Canada for his funeral.

We became much closer in his latter years, as I began to sense some kind of proper father and son relationship with us doing stuff together. When I was last with him for his 80th birthday in 2009, I took him to a John Fogerty gig at the large arena on the outskirts of Ottawa. That’s the John Fogerty from Creedence Clearwater Revival and he was brilliant. Some days later, I returned to the UK and that turned out to be the last time I ever saw him.

On our final afternoon together, he was playing some vinyl music on his record player. It was ‘All Things Must Pass’ by George Harrison. Anthony loved that record and so did, so do, I. Our time together, that day, is etched upon my mind forever, as is the 2009 Champions League final I enjoyed later that day in Ottawa airport’s departure lounge, as Barcelona defeated Manchester United, whilst I awaited my flight home to London. I remember that day, with particular fondness.

My world had changed forever within two years when my dad died. Never again would I hear his stories at first hand, never would I have been able to have talked to him about how things were, how they could have been and how they might be in years to come.

I took home with me his ashes which the following year we scattered at Battery Point, Portishead, a landmark past which the old sailor had sailed so many times in his merchant navy life. I am slightly tempted to visit Battery Point today given the stellar cloud-free blue skies above, but as I always say individual dates don’t matter too much. I’ll be there soon enough, when lockdown rules permit. Sleep well, dad.