This might be the opening day of the London Olympics 2012,
but this day is special in other ways, and I want to celebrate one of the
world’s unsung heroes today.
My Dad – Walter Stanley Biggs -- was born on July 27, 1912,
so today is his centenary.
His father, Henry, who died when his children were all still
very young, was a coachman, according to his birth certificate. Dad’s mother,
Ellen, had the maiden name Butler, and came from the Reading area.
Dad died in June 1978, aged only 65, so has been much missed
for 34 years. He lived and worked in Harpenden, Hertfordshire, for many years.
He spent all his life working for and helping others.
Tributes paid to him after he died referred to his ‘great friendship and help’,
‘kindness and loyalty’, his ‘craftsmanship’ and ‘honesty’. He was also said to be ‘highly respected’, a
‘good friend and adviser’, ‘trustworthy’,
‘sincere and warm’ and ‘full of life and devilment’. They said he ‘always
seemed to be helping somebody’ and ‘our own lives are richer for having known
him’.
My Dad was a motor engineer by trade – and very clever at
it. If you can be gifted as a motor engineer, he truly was. It was almost as if
he could tell you what was wrong with a car just by looking at it. And he
always used that gift to help others. I can remember as a child my Dad going
out in all weathers at all times of the day and night to help people whose
cars had broken down.
He was only human, of course, he’d curse when the phone rang
at 11pm and it was someone in trouble on the road. But he’d always go and get
them moving.
He lost his own father when he was still a child. My
knowledge of that history is sketchy, but I think Henry died when Dad was about ten years old.
World War Two saw Dad serving in the RAF as a flight sergeant.
That’s where he learned his engineering trade. He earned the Burma Star,
serving there on the aircraft used for troop movements. He ended the war there
in very poor health. When he eventually returned home he had lost so much
weight and looked so ill that his own mother didn’t recognise him. But he loved
Burma and its people and always longed to return there. Sadly, that was never
to be.
He married my mother in 1952. She had been widowed in the
war and already had two daughters; and he was a great dad to us all.
He taught me to drive when I was four years old. I sat on his knee and steered the old car down
our road, and he built me my own little car, powered by pedals, from discarded bits
of real grown up cars.
He showed me how to fix a fuse, chop wood, ride a bike, how
to use a cricket bat and how to catch a ball. He was great at gardening and we always had
fresh fruit and veg. He’d also go fishing and shooting and bring stuff back for the table.
My Dad was vehemently opposed to the use of physical
punishment. He would never smack his own kids and would speak out about those
who did not ‘spare the rod’ with their children. He was well ahead of his time
in this, of course. But we had great respect for him and fear of his
disapproval was enough to keep us in line.
Put simply, he taught us all how to live. Not just by
showing us all the practical stuff, but by his example of generosity, kindness and
honesty with everyone.
He made sure we grew up fit for the world . He taught us how
to give.
Most of all, he taught us how to love, just by being who he
was. All we can do is try to live up to his example.
He will always be my hero.
Below: Dad and Mum in 1975
