Something sad happened to me, almost 6 months ago, which still cuts today as it did on the 18th December 2023. My father passed away. His name was Alan Perry.
A friend of his Peter Thabit, asked me to write a few pages about his life for a poetry publication - the following is my attempt to put into words:
Alan Perry, son of Griff and Edna, retired Art teacher, writer, poet and extraordinary artist, but also Husband, Dad and friend to many he knew. To me, my father’s life was an enigma, he saw things others cannot, he uniquely expressed himself via poetry, writing, sculpture, photography and art. I am not going to try to outline his work or his creative processes, the artwork and the books and publications should speak for themselves. I am not going to write about the missing stories about his time as an aspiring art student in Swansea art college where he made lifelong friends and where he met the love of his life and future wife, my mother Jean. Or of his job as a comprehensive school Art teacher, inspiring kids in both Penlan and Morriston. Instead, I am going to write about the man I knew as my Dad. If I am honest, my Dad was just a sweet intelligent boy who grew up in Swansea surrounded by friends and family. He had a loyalty and love of family that kept him in Swansea. His mother wanted him to attend Oxford University, and as many of his accolades show he could well have been capable of going to Oxford and leading a different life. I don’t think he ever regretted not leaving.
He grew up in Post War Swansea, attending Bishop Gore Gramma School. Once he told me, of care free times he played cowboys and Indians with his brother ‘Andrew’ in Singleton Park and on the sand dunes between the Cenotaph and Black Pill. Although things were not all plain sailing, he got into trouble by putting a fake message in a bottle, after being inspired after reading Robinson Crusoe, he launched it off Swansea sands near Black Pill, only to be found out and after the emergency services spent time and resources on a fruitless search. I remember him telling me of the time when his Spanish teacher predicted he would fail his Spanish exam, but as with most things in his life he proved him wrong by passing with an ‘A’. I think this recollection may have been more to set an example for my attitude to education. A pitfall of having both parents as Teachers, high standards are always expected, but I digress. Dad had a wonderful sense of humour, we would watch many comedies on TV together, Monty Pythons flying circus to the Young Ones to ‘Laurel and Hardy films or Father Ted. He had an infectious laugh, if you were upset and annoyed you couldn’t stay that way for long once he had that silly grin on his face.
He was also very competitive, trying to beat me at chess and snooker or running, he always had that glint in his eye if he thought he could win. One time my Dad was asked to play soccer with his teacher colleagues, but he was overweight and out of condition, mainly through inactivity and he had struggled to play. Dad being Dad, his competitiveness streak spurred him to change. So much so, I must have been about 9 or 10 at the time, he took me and my brother our Labrador cross ‘Gypsy’ down to the ‘slip’ on Swansea front, where he attempted to run along the promenade. We were laughing because both my brother and I were able to run longer and faster than our Dad. But unphased that was the beginning of my Dad’s running career. He trained every single day, taking Gypsy and running, come rain or shine. He lost so much weight to the extent none of his suits that he used to wear to school would fit him. As a teenager I would run 3 miles with him some evenings, but my Dad had gotten so fit he would leave me for dust the last 400 yards as we raced to the bottom of Constitution Hill.
And by the age of 40, he had run the London Marathon – 26 Miles in the impressive time of 3 hrs and 14 minutes. I was 44 when I completed the London half marathon in the same time, bringing home the reality of how fast my Dad had run the full race, twice the distance in a faster time. And although Gypsy eventually could not keep up with him and sadly passed away, my Dad continued to run most days well into his 60’s, he would jog along the sea front or run his usual 3 mile loop.
Snooker was another of his sporting loves, always watching Pot Black and eventually the World Snooker Championships at the Crucible in Sheffield. One Christmas I remember getting a 5ft snooker table, and the hours of fun we spent, trying to become the next Welsh Champion to replace Terry Griffiths. Over 20 years he played his best friend JM in a running snooker tournament. He wrote this poem to commemorate their partnership:
In the Green Baize For John Davies
The kids all back at school, these days we have the top floor to ourselves...
No horseplay, no high-jinx, no boisterous talk - no sound at all but the click of balls, the scratch of chalk.
We can hear ourselves breathe. We can hear ourselves soundlessly walk from pocket to pocket...
Twenty-five years - and less than a score of frames between us! Yet we haven’t improved one jot - except now we botch our shots and fiddle the scoreboard with far more finesse.
Sometimes we argue. Sometimes we joke. Sometimes we curse our luck or pull off a miracle stroke.
Sometimes it feels like we’re stranded in space - two minor deities, two unranked Sysiphuses - sending these colourful spheres on their fruitless errands, not permitted a rest or a break until we’ve exhausted every possible configuration.
Sometimes we snooker ourselves and sometimes each other. Sometimes we play the percentages game and sometimes go for the pot. And sometimes, as one lines up a shot, the other, grown bored, looks beyond the rectangle of light to the back of the hall, where tabletops lie motionless and mute ranged in their dark like slabs
The stillness there is monolithic, absolute.
He was also a passionate Welsh Rugby fan stemming from his days of playing for the Bishop Gore School rugby team, many a time I would get a photo of him proudly wearing a Welsh Jersey and holding a leek on the start of the six nations.
Whenever I needed something or some help he would drop everything. I remember when we bought our first house in Kingston upon Thames (a very small mid-terrace two bedroom working men’s cottage from the 1880’s) and were having a new kitchen installed. Cecile and I both had work commitments and Dad stepped in and offered to look after the Plumber installing a new sink and washing machine. At 12pm I got a phone call from my father apologising that due to a spate with the Plumber, the Plumber had walked off the job. When I asked what happened, he explained that the Plumber had been complaining about the small space he had to work in, all morning, and that the Plumber’s language was very colourful every other word was F’ing this F’ing that, swearing about everything, but mainly about the small area he had to work in. Finally, it came to a head when the Plumber turned to my father and asked if he had a drill bit, he had not brought with him to complete the job. My father is normally a patient man, it takes a lot to push my father’s buttons, but on this occasion, he turned to the Plumber and replied, ‘No, he did not have a spare fucking drill bit, any fucking Plumber worth his salt would come prepared for every fucking eventuality and would carry the correct fucking toolbit in his tool box in the first place.’ The Plumber was take aback, he said ‘ you can’t swear at me like that’, my father said ‘ you have been F’ing and blinding and complaining ever since first thing this morning, I am just talking back to you the way you have been speaking out loud. And that was that, the Plumber turned face, packed his tools and left the job unfinished. And that was my Dad, he rang me sheepishly to tell me what he did, and I could not hold it against him, he did what he thought was right, he was acting in our best interests as always. We eventually got the kitchen installed, by the same company just a different Plumber who could not believe my father had upset his workmate so much. Afterwards my Dad, Cecile and I laughed about the whole thing as we celebrated over a meal, finally getting a new Kitchen.
Another hobby my Dad loved was to swim, but as an added quirk he sometimes would also go swimming in the middle of the night in the sea. Every summer we couldn’t afford holiday’s abroad, so most summers would be spent in a tent on a campsite down Llangennith or in a rented caravan down Burry Holmes. We would sit by the gas light whilst my father took an evening swim with only the stars and moon for light. It inspired many of his night swimmer paintings and also his Solo Exhibition at the Glynn Vivian Art Gallery in Swansea in 1993 titles Shards.
The hours he spent working for charity after he had retired and the hours of interviews, he undertook remarkable stories from the down and outs and homeless for his book ‘Music you do not normally hear’, the proceeds all donated to charity for the homeless. Or the amount of time he devoted to editing and organizing poetry readings for ‘Cheval’ and ‘When young Dodo’s meet young Dragon’s’ giving back to young writers and developing young talent in Wales. I wish I had taken more note and paid attention.
Was he selfish with his time he spent with his family, dedicating hours to art and writing, some could say yes, but no he was always there for us.
So in summation, there is no summation, my Dad lived a full life, I wish it had been longer. Living in Texas meant that we only met up a few times a year, we had weekly phone calls, but I always believed that I would return and we could spend more time together. His health had progressively deteriorated over the last couple of years. My Dad, was sometimes very unhappy and depressed when his both his parents and Brother eventually passed away, he was the last of his family and this affected him deeply. Last year, I visited him just over a month before he died, with the intention of trying to get to the bottom of his health issues and to try to ensure that he had support if he needed help. But due to certain circumstances that was not to be, however, I did manage to spend some quality time with him, which I shall cherish. My Dad was a lifelong Dylan Thomas admirer, and much as I would like to think my father fought against his passing like Dylan’s poem ‘Do not go Gently into that Good Night’, he slipped away quietly. Hopefully to be with the Father, Mother and Brother he missed so much.
It has been hard reminiscing, many a tear shed remembering all the good times, maybe I will try to write some more fond memories, It should get easier, and the last thing my Dad would want is to be sad for his passing. Adieu, until the next time we meet.
©️ Alan Perry 2024
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