My Dad George Hurst

I got my story in a magazine; it was about my dad, George Hurst. He was the best dad in the world. He loved his family and raised his children while my mum was always ill with her nerves. He cooked, cleaned, and worked down the coal mine. My dad was like me: always happy and helping others, but usually taken for granted, too.

He used to come home from the pit and never moaned, even though we all knew he probably experienced a bad day. We used to watch wrestling on the telly. Big Daddy was my favorite wrestler. Dad loved tag teams.

I know sometimes I was disobedient and set out to annoy. I wrote out my story for the magazine just to, in a way, say sorry his life was so challenging. I wanted to get my dad recognized out there on the web. His name was George Hurst, born in 1919 in Ashton in Makerfield near Wigan. He worked at Bold Pit near home. My dad was a twin to Aunty Ellen (Nelly); they were like two naughty kids when together.

Dad died of pit disease and lung cancer in July 1988; he was my best friend. I loved him more than life. When I was little, I used to sit up for hours at night, repeating over and over, "God, please don’t ever let my dad die." When I got married and moved out, he would walk or get the bus to my house and stay with me if it was thundering. Dad knew I was terrified of thunder and lightning. We had little money, no big house, just a rented terraced house. No car or telephone, yet we were rich in the love my dad held in his heart for his family. It was pure gold, my dad's heart.

So I sent my dad's story to this magazine, and they published it, photos and all. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world; I got my dad's name out there on the internet. I still cry for my dad and talk to him. I was born lucky to have him as my dad. Rest in peace always, Dad. xxxxx

You know, once something gets published and you realise, "Wow, I wrote that," you want to do more. I did it; it inspired me to write poetry. I have written poetry since I was about 12. My dad always encouraged this. He would get paid and buy me a lined writing book and a black fine-nibbled pen. I would write the silliest poetry; my dad listened proudly. The rubbish ones were never rubbish to him. I also loved to draw. Dad did some amazing art, mainly roses. 🌹 I, too, love drawing and making roses. I would draw Christmas pictures for him: candles, robins—they always took pride on the kitchen wall.

I have an old reel-to-reel tape recorder of me singing and Mum talking, joking with us. I play it often just to hear his voice. He loved country music; there is lots of that on the tape. This goes back to about 1970 to 1974. Happy days those were. One of his old work friends once told me, after he died, that I was the apple of my dad's eye. I knew this already.

I hope that when I die, he is there waiting for me with my family. I just want to see his face and have him tell me his silly jokes again. I want to sit by his side when I feel sad and feel like I used to when I was worried. He sensed it and always made sure he made his way to find and reassure me.

My dad, George Hurst, 27/8/1919 - 3/7/1988 R.I.P.