When I was growing up, I always believed that some day I would be a dad. Partly this was because it’s what I thought people did: meet a girl, fall in love, get married and have kids. But mostly it was because I had a brilliant dad, and I wanted to be just like him.
What I quickly learned as I navigated parenthood was that one of the biggest parts of being a parent is actually in being a teacher. And dad was a great teacher, so I learned from one of the best.
He taught me many different things over the years, from practical stuff like how to drill a hole, how to cut wood, how to wire a plug, how to peel a potato (althought thanks should go to the british army for that one) to more fun things like how to play the guitar, and how to drive a car. He also taught me that one of the most important things to do for your children is to always be there for them, to be kind and patient, and to help out whenever possible and at whatever time of day.
Such as the time he happily bent the law by giving me and my 7 mates a lift home when they were stranded after a gig. This was partly because he could, given we had one of the only 7 seater cars in existence at the time, a Talbot Rancho, but mostly it was because if he didn’t they had no way of getting home, so in the car we all jumped. To be honest, I’m pretty sure it was the only time we used the 2 seats in the boot and it still meant having 4 people crammed into the back seat, with Lucy, the smallest of us, lying across their laps.
Or the many many times he helped me and my friends Chris and Ali move house every 6 months when we first moved down to Brighton, driving the van and pitching in shifting the many boxes of books and CDs we each had somehow accumulated despite having no money. He was always willing to help out, that’s just who he was.
But the greatest lesson I learned from him, and one that actually took me a long time to understand that I had, was one he probably didn’t even realise he was teaching me: To give everything a go, no matter what, and to break everything down into the simplest of tasks and tackle each one in turn.
You see Dad was one of life’s “Bodgers”, if something broke, he’d have a go at fixing it, if something didn’t quite fit or needed making from scratch, he’d have a go. Sometimes this worked out better than others. That thing might not end up looking so great anymore, or perhaps work quite as well as it should, or used to, but it would do the job, and that was what mattered.
When I was around 10, I think, I started taking an interest in the many things he worked on, probably because I was fascinated by his shed and the multitude of tools, gadgets, knobs and switches contained therein. Dad happily answered my many questions and took the time to show me what he was doing. Rather than see me as a nuisance, I think he recognised a kindred spirit, and he certainly saw me as a spare pair of hands to hold things in place, or pass him screws and nails. I think it was also a way of stopping me from taking everything apart by myself just to see how it worked. Thinking back, my involvement most likely meant that things would take a little longer, and it might require extra levels of patience and possibly involve some kind of injury or swearing on his behalf along the way, although to be fair that would have probably have happened anyway, but we would get the job done, and sit back with a sense of achievement when it was.
We worked on a lot of different things together over the years. One of the biggest was the Bedford van I helped him convert into a camper. One of my earliest memories is of my parents’ yellow and white Commer, an ex-post office van that my Dad had previously converted. We used to travel around all over the south east in that van, visiting my many uncles and aunts, and before we set off to come home, my parents would always set up the double bed that formed out of the two sofa seats and the dining table in the back. Pillows and duvets would be produced out of the many storage compartments and, about half way through the journey home, I would clamber over from the front seat and cuddle up in the bed.
As I’d missed out on helping with the previous van, on account of being a toddler at the time, I was super excited to help with this new one. Together we cut holes in the sides and doors and removed the roof. Then we trawled the junk yards for parts, clambering over the many scrapped cars and vans, finding windows that fit, and a rising roof to go on top. Then we lined the inside and fitted the whole thing with cupboards and seats and storage all in ply wood. It sounds like a massive project, and yes, it was one that he had done before, so had the advantage of previous knowledge. Which meant that as we worked he could be patient with me, break each task down into the smallest of things, with the simplest of instructions, then tackled them in turn, doing the best job we could on each one.
Looking back on these projects I was surprised to learn how fearless he was. He had the mindset that no matter what he was trying to achieve, no matter how scary it might seem or how overwhelming and massive the task might appear to be, no matter if he’d never done that thing before, if he set his mind to it, he would manage it in the end. And yes, It might not look so good, and it might not work quite as well as it should. But the next time he had to do it, it would look better and work better and he wouldn’t end up swearing as much.
I’ve never had his same fearless mindset, but I’ve always tried to follow his example and give everything a go, no matter how scary or big. It may be a test of my patience and resolve, it might require extra knowledge, or tools, but I do the best I can and most of the time that works out. And just like him, it usually involves a fair amount of swearing and injury along the way, although, as I’m currently blessed with more hair than he ever did, I do hit my head a little bit less than he did.
John Michael Keller – 11th June 1939 – 20th December 2024
