Moments of pure elation that dad and I shared

While Dad was prone to stress at times and could get wound up by everyday pressures, he never lost touch with the excited boy inside him. Whenever a genuine milestone was on the horizon, the worry vanished and a radiant, infectious energy took its place—sweeping father and son up in the exact same wave of pure, shared elation.

The earliest of those waves arrived with the construction of our swimming pool.

Jo and I were water babies through and through, and the realization that we were getting a pool of our own in the garden set our childhood imaginations on fire. We monitored every stage of the excavation like site foremen: the raw dirt crater carved into the lawn, the structural mesh, the smooth coats of render, and finally the brilliant, dazzling coat of sparkling white plaster.

Then came the agonizing finale: the garden hose went in.

Jo and I hovered over the coping stones, willing the waterline to rise. As the saying goes, a watched pool never fills. The trickle seemed glacially slow, and our impatience was vibrating off the charts. Dad stood beside us watching the water creep up the slope, his green eyes dancing with our anticipation—until his own restraint snapped.

The pool wasn't anywhere near full; it had barely reached the shallow-end shelf, hovering somewhere around our knees.

Dad looked down at us with a sudden, conspiratorial grin. "Right then. In you go!"

We didn't hesitate for a split second. We leaped straight into that chilly, half-filled basin, splashing and tumbling through the shallows in a burst of sheer, delirious joy that remains one of the most vivid, sparkling memories of my entire youth.

Dad celebrated the milestone in his own signature style: he invited Gramps over, and the two of them sat side by side on the specially commissioned "beer step" built into the wall, clinking cold lagers in triumphant satisfaction. That pool went on to host decades of family joy—cooling off after scorching summer days, endless diving contests, and boisterous rounds of midnight Marco Polo.

A few years later, the excitement shifted back to the rails.

I was there for the culmination of Dad's greatest engineering feat: the completion of his very first live-steam locomotive. It had demanded six long years of painstaking craftsmanship. Every single screw, valve, and brass fitting had been turned and threaded by his own two hands on the lathe. It wasn't just a model; it was a breathing, mechanical masterpiece.

When the day finally arrived to fire up the miniature boiler at the club track for its maiden run, Dad was as giddy as a schoolboy on the last day of term. His pride and delight were so radiant, so completely infectious, that the whole family was buzzing. Climbing into the carriage behind his gleaming engine and feeling the real steam chug under his power, watching Dad beam from the driver's bench, was pure magic.

That mutual thrill came full circle when Dad took me into town to buy my very first electric model train set. We picked out the iconic South African Blue Train, complete with an expanse of glistening track.

To make the day utterly unforgettable, Dad went to a high shelf at home and brought down an old Hornby set from his own childhood—superb vintage steam engines and carriages that happened to be fully compatible with the new lines. "Here," he said, handing over his past. "These are yours now."

With that single gesture, my small railway empire exploded. In the storeroom right next to his workshop, while the scent of his cutting oil drifted through the doorway, I spent hundreds of blissful hours orchestrating lines and running Dad's vintage rolling stock alongside my shiny Blue Train.

He did the exact same thing with his stamps. During my school years, I fell into a feverish obsession with philately, pouring every cent of my pocket money into British mint issues and first day covers. I organized them with meticulous, reverent care.

Dad watched this quiet discipline unfold. One afternoon, he produced his own album—a rich, historic archive of classic English and South African stamps he had preserved since he was a lad.

He didn't just casually toss it my way. He looked at me with genuine respect and said, "I can see how much you value your stamps, Graeme, and how beautifully you look after them. I want to give you my collection—not just as a gift, but for you to be the official curator of it."

My collection doubled in a single heartbeat. It was an overwhelming, chest-swelling moment of honor. I spent weeks happily lost in the quiet thrill of integrating his youth into mine, cataloging history under the desk lamp.

Dad was always quietly engineering joy behind the scenes. When Jo and I dreamed of high vantage points, he built us a sturdy timber platform high in the branches of the backyard tree. I spent countless afternoons perched up there, legs dangling over the edge, gazing down across the blue expanse of the pool and feeling like the king of the world.

Later, when I was in my second year at university, an inheritance from my grandfather gave me the rare, life-changing opportunity to buy my first home in Fernwood Estate, tucked beneath the mountain near Kirstenbosch Gardens.

House hunting at that age is an overwhelming maze, but Dad became my steady, invaluable seer. He had an instinctive eye for structural bones, plumbing quirks, and practical value, guiding me patiently past the duds until we found the perfect gem. When the keys were in hand, Dad and Mum rolled up their sleeves and spent days beside me rolling paint onto the walls. His pride in seeing his son plant roots so close to nature was tangible in every brushstroke.

And then came the purchase of our family beach house in Melkbosstrand—perched right against the sand, opening onto crashing surf and endless horizons, ushering in a whole new chapter of shared coastal excitement.

Looking back across all those milestones—from leaping into twelve inches of pool water to holding the title deeds of a home—I realize that Dad's greatest gift wasn't just the things he built with his hands. It was the generous, unreserved way he stepped into our joy, offering his tools, his treasures, and his whole heart to make our world that much bigger.

Memorable moments: The Russian compliment

I can be a bit of a burper from time to time. When a good meal or a cold drink hits the spot, there are moments when nothing feels quite as honest as letting out a deep, contented belch.

My sister, Jo, has never been a fan.

Over the years, Jo cultivated a particular facial expression reserved exclusively for my domestic transgressions: "The Look." It was a masterpiece of cold, withering disapproval designed to keep her older brother in line, and growing up, I found it genuinely formidable. The Look was instantly deployed for the cardinal sins of bodily noise—belching at the table, theatrical flatulence, and the unpardonable crime of failing to wash my hands after using the toilet.

Her childhood bedroom shared a wall with the loo, turning her into an involuntary acoustic auditor. She would sit in silence, listening intently for the telltale sequence of sounds. If the roar of the flush was not immediately followed by the distinct hiss of running tap water, her voice would pierce the drywall with absolute authority: "Wash your hands!"

Yet despite Jo’s vigilant policing, my gastrointestinal expressiveness was practically preordained. It is hard not to be a burper when you descend from an unbroken dynasty of them.

Dad was an unapologetic burper, particularly after cracking open a cold beer. Whenever he let one loose, it was never aggressive or uncouth; it was delivered with an aura of pure, unadulterated contentment. It was simply the sound of a relaxed man feeling entirely at peace in his own home, and it was one of his many quiet quirks that I found completely endearing.

The habit went back another generation. Dad got it directly from his mother—my beloved Granny.

Every Sunday, Jo and I would head over to Granny and Grandpa’s flat for a traditional roast chicken lunch, piled high with vegetables and followed by dishes of junket, a sweet, milky dessert I absolutely adored. Granny was otherwise the quintessential portrait of quiet, refined, ladylike decorum. Yet without fail, once the plates were cleared and the roast was settled, this gentle matriarch would let out a surprisingly robust, uncharacteristic belch.

Before anyone could raise an eyebrow, Granny would look around the table with absolute composure and offer her standard cultural defense: in Russia, she would explain, a hearty belch after a feast is not an insult at all. It is customary—an essential, implicit compliment to the chef signaling that the meal was thoroughly enjoyed.

Armed with that impeccable heritage, what chance did I ever have?

Society has an odd, squeamish relationship with the harmless noises of human biology. We treat burps and passing wind as catastrophic social breaches, despite the fact that digestion is a universal, non-negotiable process that clearly demands pressure relief. Clamping down on basic biology in the name of polite etiquette has always seemed slightly backwards to me.

As Granny knew, and as Dad so effortlessly demonstrated from his armchair: far better out than in.

What the quiet man left behind

When I look at the landscape of my life—at the things that bring me pure, unadulterated joy, the rituals that ground me, and the deep obsessions that fill my days—I see the hand of one man.

I am, in almost every way that matters, the living continuation of my father’s quiet passions.

Dad was a gifted photographer with a natural eye. You could see it instantly in the framing of his prints: a patience for light, composition, and human moments. Both my sister Jo and I inherited that precise visual gene. Along with Mum, Dad had an instinctive urge to keep a record, charting our childhoods frame by frame. When he wasn't carrying his still camera, he was hoisting his video recorder, persistently documenting our lives—filming the sacred, hilarious chaos of Christmas morning present-openings despite Jo and me groaning from behind our wrapping paper that we felt far too on-show. Later in life, that very same archival impulse became a defining part of who I am: an unshakeable need to capture beauty for posterity, to preserve family stories, and to build Life Trove, my beloved personal blog.

He gave me my wanderlust. He loaded me into the car for sweeping, formative road trips along the Garden Route to Knysna, through the rugged stone canyons of the Swartberg Pass, and into the game reserves of Zululand. Those journeys ran on an easy, unspoken synergy: me pressed against the glass with my binoculars, tracking birds in the bush, while Dad leaned into his camera to record our passage. Long drives, open horizons, and the thrill of discovery became part of my bloodstream.

He gave me my soundtrack. His cherished stereo system—a piece of equipment he treated with immense pride and care—played the backdrop to my youth. It was a joyful, eclectic rotation: Olivia Newton-John, the Grease soundtrack, ABBA, country classics, and the grand, soaring symphonies he loved, especially Richard Clayderman and the disco-orchestral hits of Hooked on Classics. Decades later, instrumental and classical music remains my truest comfort.

He gave me my adoration for dogs. Growing up, our home was never complete without four-legged companions: Cindy, Scamp, Tina, and Meg. I can still see Dad standing at the top of the driveway, firing tennis balls into the distance, or throwing his arms wide as he arrived home, sending Tina into frantic, ecstatic puddles of canine delight. That pure, uncomplicated love for dogs has anchored me across my entire adult life.

He gave me my love for screen and story. Our family was among the first on the block to get a television set, and later a VHS player. Saturday nights were a sacred household liturgy: settling onto the sofa with coffee and chocolate to watch Magnum, P.I., The A-Team, MacGyver, and Knight Rider, or getting swept up in grand television epics like Little House on the Prairie and The Thorn Birds. He and Mum would drive me out to Cavendish Square to catch classic cinema like The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

He passed on his fascination with history. Dad was captivated by the Second World War—the very conflict where my mum's dad (my gramps) had served—and he sat rapt through every episode of The World at War. Watching it beside him ignited my own lifelong appetite for history and documentary. He cultivated my imagination with books, introducing me to Jock of the Bushveld and a beloved childhood tale about a blind lumberjack and his faithful dog that permanently hooked me on reading.

He gave me his humor—and that unmistakable, mischievous, naughty streak. Dad had striking green eyes, the exact shade I see in the mirror today. Whenever he delivered a cheeky double entendre, those green eyes would dance and sparkle with delight. More often than not, he would find his own punchline so utterly funny that his laughter would dissolve into an affectionate, wheezing coughing fit before the sentence was even finished.

He taught me the sacred art of the passion project. In his backyard workshop, surrounded by heavy metal lathes, cutting oil, and tools, Dad spent thousands of patient hours building miniature, coal-fired steam locomotives from raw steel. It was his ultimate sanctuary. He poured his creative soul into those engines, finding immense pride in their craftsmanship and sharing that devotion with kindred spirits like Jimmy, Derek, and Stan. I didn't inherit his mechanical hands, but I inherited the exact same soul: that fundamental need to retreat into blissful solitude, to lose myself in passion projects like Life Trove and Wisdom Trove, and to connect deeply with the rare few who share those devotions.

Above all else, Dad gave me my love of the natural world. He loved sleeping out on the patio beneath the open night sky—a habit I still treasure. He loved the ocean, catching Indian Ocean swells on his white polystyrene board, forging my own passion for open-water bodysurfing. He led our weekend pilgrimages to Constantia Nek, where we walked beneath the trees gathering pine cones to feed the family hearth. He guided me up Table Mountain through the rocky cleft of Skeleton Gorge, and he paddled alongside me through the desert canyons of the Orange River.

And from him came my deepest love of camping.

My absolute fondest memories of Dad reside in our annual "boys-only" camping trips to Uilenskraal, just outside Hermanus. Grandpa, Dad, and I would pile into Dad’s mustard-yellow Variant and make the pilgrimage to the coast. We always pitched camp in the exact same spot beneath an old, familiar tree.

The ritual was unchanging. We would drive heavy wooden pegs into the earth with a solid rubber mallet to erect the great orange tent for Dad and Grandpa, followed by my own smaller tent nearby. We'd unfold the weathered camp table and chairs, take a long walk along the tranquil waters of the lagoon, and settle into the evening.

At night, Dad and I would slip away for a stroll through the adjacent campsite, wandering amidst hundreds of dark, dilapidated caravans. In the gloom, the rows of silent vans felt spooky and mysterious, but I never felt a single prickle of fear. Walking in the dark beside him, safe inside the shelter of his gentle presence, I would often be overcome by a sudden, private swell of love so profound that my eyes would literally well up with tears. On the way back to the tents, we'd duck into the little camp shop to pick up bars of mint chocolate.

The mornings were a feast. All three of us possessed formidable appetites. We would haul out an ancient, heavy iron frying pan and balance it over the heat, piling it high with bacon, eggs, sliced bananas, thick bread, and tomatoes. The sizzle and rich, gorgeous aroma rising into the salt air was pure, intoxicating anticipation.

When I was young, I didn't see the depth of what I had.

Gramps was the larger-than-life figure in our family orbit—flamboyant, charismatic, outgoing, and effortlessly demonstrative. As a boy, I idolized that swagger. I held Gramps up as the hero on the pedestal, and in doing so, I undervaluated Dad’s quiet, self-effacing reserve. I took his patience for granted. I pushed against his steady boundaries during my prickly teenage years, unable to comprehend the immense gift of a man who ruled not with an iron fist or performative charm, but with steady, unconditional kindness.

Dad passed away in 1995. He left us far too early, when I was still too young to understand how quickly the runway ends.

What I wouldn't give to sit across from him today. To have a quiet hour in the sun, to share these rich, enduring passions with him as an adult, and to finally thank him properly for the entire architecture of my life.

I cannot pull up a folding chair beside him at Uilenskraal. I cannot ride beside him through the Swartberg Pass, or step into the oil-scented air of his workshop to watch him turn brass on the lathe.

Yet every time I frame a photograph through the viewfinder, every time I hike a rugged trail, every time I pitch a tent under the trees, throw a ball for a dog, or smile at a cheeky joke while my green eyes twinkle—I realize he never truly left. He is woven into the very fabric of how I experience this earth.

He gave me the best of who I am; and in every joy I carry, my father lives on.

Memorable moments: Her beautiful face

Mum and Dad were never grandly demonstrative or effusive with their affection.

Dad was naturally introverted and emotionally reserved—though nowhere near as withheld as his own father, who took emotional distance to stoic extremes. Even so, I think Mum often wished Dad had been a little more openly romantic. She was usually the one to initiate a warm embrace. Dad would return the hug, but always with a faint undercurrent of discomfort around public displays of affection. Almost as an instinctive, conditioned defense mechanism to diffuse the intimacy, he would give her bottom an affectionate little pat, look down, and call her "Diddums"—his pet name for her. 

Yet beneath that quiet, self-conscious exterior, the love between them ran deep. You just had to watch closely for the moments when the guard came down.

Two distinct memories made that crystal clear to me.

The first was during a family holiday to Mauritius. We had spent an idyllic week soaking up the island sun, completely unwinding by the Indian Ocean. Free from the routines of the dental practice and the workshop, Dad was more relaxed than I had ever seen him.

On the transfer bus heading back to the airport, Mum and Dad sat together just ahead of us. As the lush landscape drifted past the windows, I glanced over and noticed they were holding hands—fingers laced together, quiet and still. It was something I had literally never seen them do before. There was such an unforced, luminous tenderness between the two of them in that moment that it moved me to tears right there on the bus. It etched itself into my mind as an enduring portrait of what they really shared.

The second moment emerged from a completely different, far more frightening setting.

Dad and I had embarked on a four-day canoe expedition down the Orange River. It was a magnificent adventure, navigating the wide desert gorges under the sun, and Dad was having the time of his life—until we hit the biggest rapid on the route.

Our canoe took on water, lost its line, and capsized violently into the boiling white water.

We both managed to swim through the currents and scramble ashore to safety, but the shock of the submersion completely shattered Dad’s nervous system. It psyched him out in a way I had never witnessed before. The trauma triggered an intense, lingering panic attack that hung over him for days like a dark cloud, so severe that he became convinced the shock had brought on a mild stroke.

Over the days that followed, as we paddled through the calmer waters, he kept turning to me with genuine distress in his eyes, repeating the same haunting thought:

"Graeme, I really think I've had a stroke... I can't picture your mum's face. I can't picture her beautiful face."

Eventually, as the days wore on and his nervous system slowly recalibrated, the panic receded and his mind cleared. But the phrase stayed with me.

In the midst of the most terrifying physical and psychological crisis of his life, when his brain felt hijacked by shock, his immediate, instinctive terror wasn't about his health, his safety, or his survival. His world narrowed entirely to the fear of losing the memory of the woman he loved.

Dad may not have been a man for flowery poetry or grand public romance, but when the waters ran rough, she was the anchor his soul reached for first.

NSW State Library with Photography Meetup

We met up at the NSW State Library. The rain seemed to be settling, so we ventured into the Botanical Garden but a new deluge forced us back to the library where there were two wonderful photographic exhibitions of two icon Australian photographers: Lorrie Graham and Max Dupain.

Related posts

• Lorrie Graham photo exhibit 
• Max Dupain photo exhibit 

Pondo Hike

Jo, Antony and Matt did the Pondo Hike in Transkei with Rob, Dawn, Russell, Brandon and others in July.  Dawn's future mobility is uncertain with her condition and this was a chance for her and lots of special people in her life to share a beautiful experience together.