George Thomas Bathgate -My memories of my grandfather by Eleanor Hooper
At his funeral the officiating minister, Rev Williamson, said George Bathgate “was the finest man I have ever known.”
I think a lot of people would have agreed with him. Danny, as his grandchildren called him, was one of those rare individuals with a strong sense of honour and duty, but also a great sense of humour.
One of the last memories I have of him while Gran, his wife, was still alive, was her puzzling one day over who had sent her a particular birthday card. The handwriting was unrecognizable, and it was unsigned except for, “From an admirer.” She just couldn’t let it rest. All of a sudden my mother looked at her father and must have seen a twinkle in his eye. “Was it you, Dad!?” Indeed it was! He must have also sent her a signed card in order to initially allay any suspicion the unsigned one was from him. Such a nice man to have fun with his wife, even near the end of their lives together. (He continued to live for another 7 years after she died).
Another enduring memory I have of them both is that every morning he would brush her hair. First she would have her bath (and she had it in tepid water, all year round! Even in Otago winters! My mother told me she used to have cold water, until I think the Dr said that might be a bit much for her heart. She lived till about 80 (she never told her age so we had to guess) so I don’t think the cold baths did her too much harm)…anyway, after her bath she would sit in a chair in the kitchen and Danny would brush her hair. When I was staying with them he would let me help, always making sure I brushed gently. After her hair was all nice and smooth, she would go and pin it up for the day.
They taught me to light their little gas kitchen cooker. I was quite scared but with one of them on each side of me, coaxing me along, I eventually got the hang of striking the match, turning on the gas and holding the burning match close to the little holes until the gas caught alight.
Danny was wounded in WW 1 at Gallipoli. He never talked about it, but he had a few reminders of his injuries. One was a scar on the side of his scalp, another a scar on his leg (as he always wore long trousers, so we never saw this unless he pulled his trouser leg up to show us). The other thing was his little finger that was permanently bent. He let us play with his hand but pulled it away if we should try to straighten his finger out.
Much later I learnt from my Aunty Hazel that he had been very severely injured indeed and it was a wonder he had survived. I’ll attach her story in a separate document.
Danny never minded having us children around and often played with us. He would draw pictures (he was good at doing a cow’s head). He would sit in his armchair with the wide flat wooden arms and help us do somersaults down his lap. As we grew older the somersaults gave way to games of Ludo or Draughts. Endless games of draughts! I don’t know how often my winning was because he let me or because I really did beat him, but after a while I saw some advantage to be had and suggested when he won, I give him a penny and when I won, he give me a penny. He said, “No, that’s gambling.” I learnt a quick sure lesson from that.
One of his treats was to walk with us up the street to the Mornington shops and buy us a chocolate fish.
After my grandmother died I would go to stay with him in my school holidays. Initially one of my cousins would be there too, but later on it was just me and him. As we both had hearing difficulties (his a result from the war injury to his head), we often wrote notes – back and forth, writing on a pad. We thought it was cool!
Save as PDF