Story
The earliest memory I have is of my Dad skating on a pond in the winter of 1963. The coldest winter on record for over 200 years.
The ice creaked as my Dad sailed past my elder sister, Susan, and I, as we took it all in, and marvelled at his skill on the narrow steel blades. Figure skates of course.
We lived on a council estate in Crewe, 36, Beech Drive, Wistaston. Row after row of red brick semi’s made for affordable living for young professionals like Dad. He was born in Harrow, north London on Feb 21st, 1933, and must have witnessed first hand some of the London Blitz. Although Harrow was spared the terror of the city, there are records of it being bombed.
One of the defining moments in his life was National Service. That requirement was gradually phased out by the MacMillan Govt, in 1957.
Dad joined the Royal Air Force as a morse code operator, and a recurring memory of childhood was him simulating morse code signals. His RAF squadron number I’m blanking on, but the symbol was a sheaf of wheat. He was posted to Hong Kong and by all accounts and some photos had the time of his life.
To be continued.
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