My dad spoke perfect English with his Czech accent. What was different about his accent? For me, he spoke quietly, but at times forcefully, a pleasant lilt, with well-rounded words and I love how the Czechs pronounce their r’s, with a real roll of the tongue. Dad was always clear when he spoke. Simply, I loved his words.
Now to the part of my story that explains my passion on why write words.
Back to 1977. I was 11 years old. Dad was a devoted reader. He would read, yes literally read atlases. He would take a volume of the World Book Encyclopedia and, well, read it. He paid a lot of money for this brand-new set of encyclopedias that he purchased from a door-to-door salesperson. I remember him paying off this set of books for a long time, with new volumes being delivered every month, as payments were made.
I used these books to scroll through, read, learn, look at images and help me through my school projects. I think it’s safe to say that dad and I knew words well.
I was an avid reader, still am. Back then, my favourites were Beatrix Potter, Anne of Green Gables, Little Women, Enid Blyton, Lewis Carroll, Roald Dahl, Dr Seuss, and my all-time favourite Trixie Belden – girl detective mysteries.
Last year, I managed to get my hands on a full set of Trixie Belden books 1 – 39, it wasn’t cheap, they’re classed as vintage (definitely showing my age here). They’re a bit worn, a bit tatty and have that musty old room smell, which comes from time-worn books that have lived too much of their life on the shelf.
Dad sat every day, without fail and completed the daily newspaper crossword. It wasn’t easy, but his love of words and completing the crossword gave him a real sense of achievement. How did I know this? I would sit beside him and help. My ‘help’, I could sense was a bit annoying for him, it was after all, HIS crossword puzzle.
I was having none of that, I had inherited his love of words, and nothing, not even my dad’s annoyance was going to stop me. In the early days, it was hard, he was too quick for me. When I think back, this time was really about bonding with dad.
As the years went on, I managed to work out more solutions to clues. Gosh, I thought, I was smart, but I suspect dad already knew the answer and let me have it.
In later years, he would start the crossword and hand it to me to finish, as he didn’t know the last few answers. He was always delighted when I came up with the right word, which had stumped him for hours.
He was sharp as a tack until the end. Even though he growled and threw his pen down in disgust at times, he probably would have ‘got it’ in the end, without my ‘help’.
When he passed away and I packed up his room with my little sister, Ang, the bottom of his cupboard and desk was full of atlases and interesting books, such as Isaac Asimov, Readers Digest Condensed Books and the Bible.
My inspiration – my dad, my passion – reading and crosswords with my dad.
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