For most of my 50 years I have wondered who all those people were that dad used to tell stories about. He had stories about former teammates, people he worked with on the road, people he knew from the pub. Stories about childhood friends and family, footballers worth taking a chance on and one's who weren't worth a damn. And there they all were at his funeral on Friday.
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It's just occurred to me this week that perhaps I get my love of a story from dad. He was never one to shy away from asking questions, remembering names, poking his nose, his rather prominent nose, into other people's business. I like to do the same.
It's not until you become a parent yourself that you realise your parents actually teach you more than you'd like to admit. Or that you actually absorb their lessons by something akin to osmosis.
When I think about the things dad taught me, taught my sister Lisa and me, it's easy to remember the obvious. We can both throw a pretty decent cut out pass; my leg break is a little rusty but I'd only need a few sessions on the verandah at Bletchington Street, where the wicket we drew on the wall in white chalk in about 1978 is still slightly visible, to get it back; I'm a natural southpaw, and Lisa knows how to pick a winner at the race track. He taught his daughters many things a son would never have picked up as quickly or done as well.
He also taught us that if you're going to commit to a sports team you commit. He'd drag us out of bed on a Saturday and drive us to hockey, to places like Lithgow and Oberon for carnivals in the midst of winter. Is there a more miserable place than Oberon in August? But he'd cheer us on, pile us all back in the car, and dissect our play on the trip home.
I'm a Dragons supporter because dad was. He always promised me we'd get to a grand final and it was just our luck that we picked the scintillating 1985 game against the Dogs. 7-6, thanks very much, losers but one of the best days I ever spent with him.
There are other things I learnt from dad. That you bought The Truth newspaper only for the form guide and not the articles; that while the science might be dodgy, maybe hosing the house bricks down on a warm summer night does indeed cool the house. I also learned how to play a sneaky beaky winning hand in poker and fold a paper napkin into a thousand different shapes.
I loved it when Dad worked for Bowater Scott. I think napkin folding was my thing. The cigarettes never interested me. Sure it was cool to drive to school in the Marlboro car when the Bathurst races were on, and we made decent pocket money helping build giant promotional cartons, and even better pocket money if we dared to knick the occasional packet to sell to mates at school. But as Curl himself used to say, those things can kill you.
To be honest, Dad travelled a lot when we were kids, on the road to places out west, and mum pulled more than her share of the load. But that's how it was in the '70s and '80s, in our family, but not once did we miss out on a thing.
We had opportunities, and holidays and laughs and the best Christmases ever, where Dad and mum, Aunty Jen and Uncle Pete and John and Helen and Cec, and Nan and Pop, the whole crazy crew would gather round the piano while John banged out a tune. Us kids would sneak off and make up a show, or wait until the adults had passed out and search for the stash of KB.
It's easy to remember a rosy childhood, or make yourself believe it was that way. We had our moments all of us. I haven't made it back to Orange much in the past 30 years. University, a career, a family of my own, but dad, indeed my whole family here in this town called home, was always in my heart.
As a kid, when dad would travel, I would sometimes climb into his wardrobe and bury myself amongst his clothes, soaking up that smell, letting it comfort me. As an adult there were times when I wish I could have done that very thing.
And it's as an adult that I've taken aboard something that I know now I learnt from dad. Every morning, every winter morning, dropping us at school he would always nag us to do up our duffle coats - duffle coats, remember them, with those little claspy closures that you had to loop through the other side. Do up your coat, he'd say, do up your coat. Yes dad, we'd say and roll our eyes.
At an age in life, an age many of us are at now, when the universe starts throwing you a few more unplayable leg breaks than you're used to, perhaps the best thing we can do is do up our proverbial coats and step out into the cold. Yes dad, you were right all along.
I'll miss you Curl. More than you'll ever know.
