It’s
Father’s Day and an occasion to rejoice wonderful daddies and papas everywhere.
Sean Taylor and Emily Hughes’ perfectly pitched picture book story of a father
and child sharing an adventure is the ideal read to share with your child. A Brave
Bear is about the beginning of a
child becoming independent and fending for themselves and it’s about a father taking
a gentle step backwards (but close enough to step in if needs be) to afford his
child the freedom and space to do that.
To celebrate Father’s Day, we asked the
Walker Books picture book team to share their memories of their dads and to
tell us what they learnt from their dads and what he means to them.
(Prepare those hankies!)
(Prepare those hankies!)
Tanya
Rosie, Editorial Assistant
Any interest
I have ever had has been respected and nurtured by my dad. When I helped fix
our home printer (by pulling on a jammed piece of paper), he presented me with
a word-processed certificate that named me a “level 1 computer engineer”. When
I got really into the Ancient Egyptians at school, he subscribed me to Ancient
Egypt magazine and got me a hieroglyphic stamp set so I could write secret
messages. And when hedgehogs became my favourite animal, he would look out for
them in the garden when it turned dark, and bring me out to look at them with a
torch.
You could
say that my dad taught me about technology, about history, and about nature…
But what he really did was teach me that I could pursue anything I liked – that
was alright by him – and that learning should be taken very seriously.
Who knows? Without my Dad I might never have been sure enough of myself to turn
a love of books into what I am so lucky to be doing now – helping to make them.
Happy Father’s Day, Papa!
Maria
Tunney, Senior Editor
When we were
teenagers and absolutely loathed getting out of bed in the morning, my dad
would stealthily open each of our bedroom doors wide … and he would open the
kitchen door wide … and then, he would get the Bothy Band playing on his
stereo and whack that volume up FULL BLAST, as loud as it could possible go.
Suddenly, the house would be full of wild, soaring Irish music. We would moan
and groan and shout abuse up the hallway, but you honestly couldn’t help but
laugh.
I think that
story is a good summation of my dad – he’s always throwing doors open wide and
filling spaces with music and laughter.
When I think
of my dad now, I think of him smiling. Or baking (his new favourite venture –
he’s a sourdough ‘whisperer’), with a tea towel slung over his shoulder. Or
humming. Or thoughtfully plucking a tune on his fiddle that rests on his knee,
as he’s listening to me tell him something. Or turning up his music in the car
and saying, “Ah guys, listen to this. Isn’t that some magical playing.” He is
goodness personified and his goodness shines through in everything he does. He
loves people, people love him. He loves hearing everyone’s stories and telling
his own; he loves learning (languages, new recipes, dances – he even learnt
ballroom dancing!) and he has insatiable appetite for knowledge (he reads
constantly and gobbles up news).
These are
the things I take with me as I go through my own days. I take his smile. I
take his love of story – telling stories, crafting stories, creating stories
with authors. I take the music – all the tunes my dad plays and the ones that
we listened to in the car on those long drives across France during hot summers
long ago means that I’ve got an ear for the musicality of picture book language
– its cadence, pattern, lyricism. I take his enthusiasm – for life, for books,
for people. But most of all, I take my dad’s HUGE heart and that’s what I look
for in the books I make … a big, thumping core.
My dad, Paddy,
P Diddy, does everything with joy and love and he makes the future seem
entirely promising. And isn’t that what parents are for? To make you feel like
you could do anything, that you could
be anyone? I think so. Happy Father’s
Day, Dad. You’re the business.
P.S. If you
ever need a solid wake up tune, I recommend the Bothy’s Band ‘The Kesh Jig’ –
you’ll be lepping out of your bed like the Lord of the Dance himself.
Lizzie
Spratt, Senior Commissioning Editor
My dad grew
up on the Norfolk broads on a farm. When he was a very young boy he’d go out on
his own to shoot and fish and collect bird’s eggs (that’s probably illegal
today). Uncle Will often took Dad into the fields to help cut the hedges, too –
now Dad has a long scar down one side of his face from an accident with the
enormous scythe. It’s slightly intimidating, but intriguing as well. Dad’s love
for being outdoors is something he has wholeheartedly passed down to me. On
many occasions he has urged me to go in the garden with him, “I’ve got
something to show you.” We’ll stand outside in silence for ages before he says,
“Look, can you see the tiny buds on the trees poking through? Spring is here.”
Spotting those small hopeful signs of new life reminds me of Dad and, for me,
it’s one of the happiest ways to spend time.
For the
first few years of my life, we had a huge black Labrador called Basil. He was a
real character, a difficult dog – boisterous and a bit aggressive to strangers.
When I was very little, someone had said something hurtful to me, I suppose,
and my dad told me a story about Basil. He explained that when Basil was a
puppy, clumsily and innocently sniffing about on a walk, a big Alsatian had
attacked him out of nowhere. It had really frightened Basil. So Basil became
wary and quick to snap, too. Dad said it wasn’t really Basil’s fault; he’d had
a nasty experience when he was young and it had made him that way. Dad always
has a brilliant way of making me see things and try and understand things from
someone else’s perspective. In fact, when we go fly fishing together, he always
reminds me to “think like a fish”. I’m never successful at catching one – nor
is he actually! – but it’s given me an amusing challenge to focus on at
least.
From as
early as I can remember, Dad has always sat at the head of the table. My chair
to the right of him, my brother opposite me and my mum next to me. Every
morning, after finishing breakfast, Dad used to do this special thing. He’d
hover his hands above the table and start making a low quiet rumbling noise,
“Ooooh ... oooooh...” and slowly but surely the table would start to rise. I’d
almost fall off my chair backwards trying to work it out, laughing, saying, “Do
it again! Do it again!” and so it would go on until finally he’d lower the
table with his fingers flickering above and get up quietly and say goodbye and
leave for work. Every day Dad left me believing in magic. I still do, thanks to
him.
Deirdre Mc
Dermott, Picture Book Publisher
When I was very
small, maybe about three years of age, I remember sitting in the front of a
white car on red leather seats between my grandparents, looking out over its
high dashboard. No seat belts of course, it was the 70’s after all, and my
tall, bald Grandad was driving very, very fast over a long stretch of ripply,
hard packed sand. The grey sky seemed really huge over the horizon and there,
in the far distance, was an ice cream van all on its own. There were no other
people on the beach at all and as we came closer and closer to the van, I
recognised a very familiar head leaning out over the counter – my
Daddy!
How
astonishing.
There he was,
with his big glasses and his big head of curly black hair, laughing and
laughing as we drove up to the hatch. He asked me what I would like and I told
him that I wanted a '99 with red sauce. So he gave me the biggest,
most massive, whipped ice cream cone I'd ever seen, with TWO chocolate flakes
and swirls and swirls of sweet raspberry sauce all round. I could barely hold
the ice cream in my little hands. It felt so strange and surprising to this
three year old on a grey summer's day in Dublin, in the
1970’s – to see my Dad in such an unfamiliar setting.
We left then, me
still in the middle between Granny and Grandad, with sticky hands and a
collapsing ice cream cone. I remember looking over my shoulder at my
Daddy's head getting smaller and smaller in the distance the further and
further away we got. I thought that he would be lonely all on his own
in his silvery, shiny ice cream van on Dollymount
strand and I remember feeling a bit lost myself, leaving him
behind, I was sad – despite my enormous ice cream.
I still call
him Daddy. My own funny, goofy Donegal Daddy, full of surprises and jokes and
craic. “Oh, your father is some fellow alright,” I hear people say. And he
is – one of a kind – a law unto himself. He's still
always behind me, supporting me in everything I ever wanted to
do and he is part of me in ways I'll never understand. He's made me
the person I am today and he’d give me, and my brothers and sister
anything we ever needed. That's my Dad, and I love him. Happy Father’s
Day, Daddy.
