Father, my teacher

John Alexander McMillan was born in New Zealand on Apr 6 1914, to Scottish parents and he led such an extraordinary life.

In 1918, the port city of Haifa was captured from the Turkish Empire by Indian soldiers serving in the British Army.

My grandfather, a Scottish engineer and his family (dad was the middle child of 3), were posted to Haifa in 1920, to take part of the British Mandate. Haifa’s development owed much to British plans to make it a central port & hub for Middle Eastern crude oil. The British Government of Palestine developed the port and built refineries, facilitating the rapid development of the city as a centre for the country’s heavy industry.

My grandfather was heavily involved in this expansion, but with a wife and 3 kids in tow, grandfather was rarely available to see the children. However, that was soon to change.
In 1921, as a 7 year old curious child, John junior, my dad, would explore the port city and play on his own, much to the chagrin of his mother and sisters.
At the same time as dad’s explorations, there was the beginning of a rapid influx into the city. Due to immigration, Jews from Europe flooded the area as well as Arabs, many from surrounding villages as well as Syria.

One can only imagine the turmoil in the city at the time; the Turks had been routed from the city only 3 years before hand, there was a major influx of new peoples into the area, a large expansion was going on and my grandfather was high up in the echelons of British engineering, guiding the expansion of the city.

His middle child was the last thing on his mind.

Some of the local villagers took it upon themselves to ‘teach the British a lesson’ and one balmy evening when Dad was playing by himself, 4 Arab head dressed – and clearly fanatical – villagers used a slingshot to fling a stone at Dad, striking him in the forehead, knocking him out.

As a way of ‘getting back at the British Empire’, they kidnapped my father and held him to ransom, the son of the lead engineer on the expansion of Haifa!

Whilst everything did turn out for the best, Dad’s main recollection of the whole incident was somewhat dimmed by a very full life, yet his most striking memory being the meeting with TE Lawrence, the Lawrence of Arabia. Dad was introduced to him after his safe return after 4 days with his kidnappers, Lawrence being a close friend with my grandfather.

Was Dad returned safely due to Lawrence’s involvement?
Had the kidnappers heard of the Battle Of Aqaba and who instigated it?
Did they know that, at that time, that same man was in Haifa?
Did they know that Lawrence was a close friend of my grandfather?

The answers to these questions remain somewhat murky. Dad passed away in 1991 and no family remains to verify the story, only very faded black and white photos.

But here was a man, a very passionate man, who went on to serve in World War 2 with the New Zealand Air Force, suffered a grievous injury and went on to have a distinguished racing career with the likes of Jack Brabham, Stirling Moss and Jackie Stewart.
He helped design and reconfigure many different car types, especially for a jolly old Italian fella named Enzo. As in Ferrari.
He helped Bill Buckle reconfigure many a vehicle.

Funny how old Bill is now a client of mine.

Dad married my mum back in ’59 and remained somewhat of an enigma to me as a young fellow growing up. He was always ‘there’ physically, but deep down I knew he really was not.

It was not until very recently that I found out that Dad was a deep meditator, a great thinker and pursued an interest in the mysteries of the Universe and Spirit. He was always saying to mum, “This is all an illusion, is it just a dream?”

How could he possibly of known the impact that these snippets of his life would have on his adopted son?

That the connections that bind us all, the twists and turns, the plots and counter plots had begun to weave into something magical?
That Lawrence of Arabia had unified many disparate values, beliefs and feelings to route a common ‘enemy’?
That this man had had a very big impact on my father’s life?
That, despite a rather distant relationship with my dad, there were things that he experienced that would echo my journey?
That many parts of my father’s life would lead me onto a path of being able to see the bigger picture and articulate the connections?

Unanswered mysteries.

Dad's best friend was a very kind fellow I knew as Uncle Tommy. Tom Sulman was another extraordinary man, his dad being Sir John Sulman.
Uncle Tommy’s dad helped Walter Burley Griffin redesign Canberra as Burley Griffin had done the commission site unseen. Not taking into account all the hills and dales, gullies and creeks requiring Sir John to reset the design.

Mum still has Sir John’s drawing instruments and a couple of those original drawings of Canberra – and no I’m not showing them to you. 🙂

My most striking memory of dad was him visiting me via a dream over 10 years ago – he’d been gone over 18 years at that stage, but that dream was so vivid, so real, so life changing and so weird that I shall never forget it.

And I’ll let it be known that it’s weird, so y’all don’t think that I don’t know that it’s weird, alright?
Believe me – I KNOW.

Many of you know my journey through active alcoholism and now – blessed be – out the other side.
Whilst I was in a treatment centre I had such a vivid aha moment, one of deep remembering of a dream of dad.

I was 4 weeks into a 5 week, in house, stay and remembering the dream, allowed me to recognise that I had actually had it, 6 weeks before I had entered.

There'd been a ten week gap between when I had the dream and the remembering of it.

For me, dad was somewhat stand offish, my perception being of him not particularly interested in the welfare & wellbeing of his adopted son. He was 52 when I was born, so one could imagine as an extremely curious and bright young fella, for a man in his mid sixties, I was, shall we say, tedious? Ha!

Upon reflection, what I really needed was a good, strong, male role model, and whilst dad did his best, I inherently knew it wasn’t enough.
I needed strong guidance emotionally, physically and spiritually.
There is no malice nor anger when I share this – it was what it was.

And here is where the dream gets weird. I was in a body of a 1 or 2 year old boy again, yet knew what I knew as a – then – 43 year old.
Dad was holding me in his arms – exactly how the image shared shows me as a bub – and I could smell him.
Smell the Old Spice aftershave and the Borkhum Riff pipe tobacco.
I could feel his whiskers against my skin and for the first time in my life, I felt the way I suspected many a son does with his dad.

I felt loved, safe and secure.

Here is where it gets REALLY weird.
We were sitting on his grave and he had me sitting as a 2 or 3 year old between his legs. We sat on those cold white pebbles upon his grave up in Blackheath. He leaned over my shoulder and pointed at his head stone.
“Look, really look.”

“What are we looking at Dad?”, I asked.

“Here, look…” he pointed.

“That dash between these dates, 6 April 1914 DASH 7 MAY 1991. It is that dash between those dates that ALL our lives amount to. Just that dash. Right now, yours is not really amounting to what we all know it can be. Perhaps you best be off to do what you need to do, yes?”
He then slid me back across that grave and pointed again.
“Look at this. R I P. You do not need to be dead like me to Rest In Peace today.”

My voice is deep. Dad’s was 2 octaves lower. It was a joy to hear and listen to.

I didn’t have any idea then, of what it was that the dream foretold. It was tremendously weird as a vivid memory, especially as there is no ‘RIP’ on dad’s grave. Just a memorial to his time during WW2 and the Royal New Zealand Air Force.
It was life changing, as the message shared by a visit from a fella that had passed 18 years before hand is forever etched upon my life and for the tens of thousands of others I’ve shared this with.

I now know what Dad meant. I know what it is to Rest in Peace today, free from the icy grip of active addiction.

Thanks Dad. I miss you, you silly ol’ thing. Fancy telling mum that no one would ever visit you up in Blackheath (a gorgeous country town, high up in the Blue Mountains, located in New South Wales, Australia). It’s a bit cold to camp up there mate, but we do visit. Very regularly.

And I know you’d love our kids. They’re very curious about you ol’ mate.

Keep us posted will you? In the scheme and big picture of Life, it won’t be long ‘til I see you again.

Vale John McMillan. Today – and I suspect for the rest of my life – I miss you.