Your Dad
Some people in life are special, like Earth Angels, who will always be remembered, always be loved, always be missed.
Charlie Feeney was one of them.
35 years on...
He was the salt of the earth. A Gentleman. A quiet, humble, civil human being. A good friend and neighbourWho would do anything for anyone.An Irish man that spent his life working his fingers to the bone in Scotland— never forgetting where he came from. Where his roots were firmly planted; In Derry— near the Banks of the Foyle. I remember the day he died.Like it was yesterday. We were both working on youth training schemes.You based in Balmore Road having to get the bus there and back — and me being jammy enough to tumble out of bed to walk the short distance of a few doors up.My mum called and told me to come home for lunch.I knew by her tone something was wrong.I just didn't know what.Or how bad 'what' would be. A quick look at my own dad when I got home laid to bed any thoughts of death.But only briefly.Her ashen face as she stood at the living room door said it was still on the cards. I waited for her to speak. She quivered before saying "There's been a terrible accident..."My heart thumped loudly inside my chest, — like someone was giving me birthday dumps the wrong way round. I heard the next few words. — "Charlie Feeneys dead"After which her voice was slow and muffled, as if the words she said were making there way to me in slow motion. I heard how he had went to work as usual.Only it wasn't as usual.Because if it had been— he would have came home.Instead 'as usual' turned out to be the guy who would normally have taken over the driving at the next pick up, not being well — so there had been no change of driver. And if it had been known in advance there would be no change of driver, — he wouldn't have needed to have been on that road. And if he hadn't been on that road... Well... Things would have been very different. But he was on that road. And I heard how the van hit an embankment on Fenwick Moors after losing its way on black ice. I heard how this gentle, kind, saintly man that wouldn't hurt the wings of a fly, was crushed by machinery inside the van that I would no longer see outside my house;Inside the van that picked us up when we hung around Westray Square waiting for a glimpse of Ashby, Just because he was a close contact of the technician we fancied at school. Inside the van that rescued us at Chirnside when we had blisters on our feet walking home from the town, after spending our bus fare on chips. Inside the van that ran us to Sunday Mass and back;— And how he would have died instantly at the scene. And I thought of you. Sitting next door. Hearing the same things I was hearing. Knowing your heart was breaking not just in two like mine;— but into a million little pieces that you would never recover from. And you never did.