My Dad Malan was one of a kind, a gentle giant of a man.
It's not easy to think of only one favourite memory of my Dad, as there are many!
I have to tell the story from the beginning. My Dad was one of eleven children, yep, it was the days before television! He only had one sister; boys seem to run in the family!
Dad was born in the midst of the Great Depression, so life was not easy.
This did not curb my super-talented father's positive outlook and his zest for life.
He had a keen interest in mechanical implements and how they worked. He invented many implements - for the garage, and even for Mom's baking. He believed in making everyday tasks easier, so would come up with all kinds of ideas.
He was a fitter and turner by trade, but missed his calling, as he had the patience of Job, loved teaching and explaining mechanical stuff to my brothers.
I used to feel so bad because he would try and explain the mechanical workings of whatever to me as well, but my brain was never wired to understand mechanics. I pretended to understand though!
His one project that did not last very long was when he installed speakers in every room of the house, even the bathroom, so we could all listen to the radio, yep, I kid you not! We had to listen to the one radio station that whoever chose, but could not turn down the volume if it was something we did not want to listen to.
Dad was a talented self-taught musician. He played many instruments - guitar, clarinet, saxophone, piano accordion, concertina, the mouth organ, and tried his hand at others. He played in a band for many years, in the grand ballroom era, but loved many genres. His favourite was jazz and traditional 'boeremusiek' (Afrikaans folk music).
Whenever we got together with the family, the three brothers-in-law would fashion homemade 'musical instruments' from things like old oil cans, and other paraphernalia from the garage, and the family would sing along. Those were wonderful happy times!
What I love about 
I was not into sport; music and books were my thing. My brothers on the other hand were sportsmen.
Being the only girl out of five children, and having inherited some of Dad's musical talent, I had the privilege of going to piano lessons from a young age.
An old piano with brass candelabra was bought from a farm. I was super excited and played that piano every single day. It was the best gift ever!
How Mom and Dad afforded it, I have no idea, but they made many sacrifices for all of us.
Mom Lily was a stay-at-home Mom while we were at school. I did tell you about her entrepreneurship in a previous Monday Memoir, This Resilient Lily would not Wilt! and how Dad built a vending pushcart, repurposed from something on wheels.
My Dad was quite the inventor. If something was not on the market, or there was no money to buy it, he would design and manufacture it in his garage, which was his playground. Dad could fix anything!
I cut my hand quite badly once when cutting a gem squash and the knife slipped, so Dad invented a gem squash cutter, which I still use today, it's great for slicing veggies like butternut as well! Dad made a couple, and patented it, but trusted the wrong person, Dad's invention was turned into a biltong slicer, which has been modified by many other manufacturers over the years. Dad was disappointed and sad about it but did not hold onto any grudges.
That was just how my Dad was.
When we were growing up, we went on annual three-week camping holidays; Dad at one time built a Touraway from an old trailer - this is a trailer with a tented rooftop; the trailer sides opened up into 'beds', a canvas extension was added to make a big tented area, mostly used for cooking, as we spent more time outdoors. It was way more comfortable than sleeping on campbeds or sleeping bags!
Another memory was when I was in my teens and prepared my first meal for the family; it tasted awful! My Mom would have known this was a disaster and told my brothers not to say anything. They all quickly disappeared from the table, but Dad finished his whole plate and told me how he enjoyed it!
Again, that was just typical of my Dad ❤
I will never forget the day when my little car blew a head gasket. Arthur was in hospital recovering from a triple bypass. I was driving to work, home, and the hospital every day, till one day when my car suddenly overheated.
I was close to home, so free-wheeled down the hill.
I held my breath when Dad put the oil dipstick in, and when it came out milky, I knew there was major damage, and burst into tears. Everything just seemed to be going wrong with Arthur still in High Care!
Dad calmly told me not to worry, he would get cousin James to source a reconditioned engine, and fix the car.
I will never forget that moment, as I felt my world had come to an end. How was I going to tell my hubby who had just undergone open-heart surgery, that I had damaged the car by being negligent, not checking the water, and all the unnecessary expense that meant?
Well, I had to do it eventually, and will never forget the look on his face when he said it was his fault! I thought hubby had not heard what I said as he'd been in the hospital for about a week already!
Turned out he had serviced the car just before he had a light heart attack and landed in hospital.
The radiator flush he put in, was supposed to be drained out after about 100 km, but he forgot, no wonder given the circumstances, and I was none the wiser. So, the radiator flush started 'eating' holes in the radiator, hence the water loss.
My Dad once again saved the day, during a very difficult period, but we all laughed about it afterward as both my and hubby's faces must have been a picture when he said it was his fault!
Dad was not happy when he had to retire, but thankfully found a half-day job at their church, as the handyman. He was the only one who could get their old Kombi going and would fetch all the old ladies for the Women's Auxiliary meetings.
It was a happy period for both Dad and Mom, as she 'worked' half-day at Sizanani, the church's outreach program which now is a Sewing Academy. They were both much loved by everyone involved with the church.
The church was overflowing at Dad's memorial service, an unexpected and untimely death, oddly the same age as my Arthur; just four days before his 73rd birthday.
It was a year after 9/11, a date he said he could never forget as it was on his birthday; not knowing that we would be having his memorial service exactly a year later, to the day.
There was a moment's silence for the victims of that awful day during the memorial.
I miss you Dad Malan!
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