​My father was the tenth child in the Sheppard family of twelve children.  His father died when he was just 8 years old, so for the most part, he grew up being nurtured by his mother, older siblings and their beloved Bertha. The most important thing in his life was his family.  

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Anyone who knew Andrew Sheppard would remember that he was quite the raconteur, and seemed to have an endless supply of jokes to tell, imitating all kinds of accents in the most amusing way.  His effervescent personality and joie de vivre  endeared him to everyone he met. 

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What we didn't realize until after he was gone, was his gift for writing. We discovered a folder full of beautifully handwritten stories, penned between October 1986 and August 1990 - just nine months before his untimely passing.  Daddy wrote as he lived - from the heart and with passion. His tributes to his mother and siblings overflow with love and respect.  We are so grateful that he recorded his early life and background, as well as his thoughts and deep feelings on current affairs in his beloved islands of Trinidad and Barbados during those years. 

I, too, often write stories early in the morning. Like my father, I’m an early riser and love the peace and quiet before the day unfolds. Reflection time, a sacred time, a private space for appreciation while sipping my first cup of coffee. He called it “The Miracle of Morning” in a beautiful poem he wrote in the seventies.

Dad wrote reams in the early morning. It was when he expressed his innermost feelings and recollections. When I transcribe his handwritten stories, I feel very close to him. His handwriting was as unique as he was. I remember his voice, the way he told jokes and lots of other little details. He would never leave the house unless his shoes were spotlessly clean, shone to brilliance with Nugget Shoe Polish. He liked to look smart and well dressed, his army training no doubt influenced that. Gobs of Brylcream kept every strand of his straight, fine black hair in place and shiny, the way movie stars of his day styled theirs. I don’t remember ever seeing him look disheveled or untidy, come to think of it. He always kept a little comb in his back pocket and a clean white handkerchief was a must. I still remember the way he stood in front of the sink, his face lathered white with shaving cream, and watching him shave with the silver Gillette razor, twisting his mouth from side to side as he got the cleanest shave he could. A few brisk pats with some Bay Rum or Limacol, or maybe some aftershave lotion given to him, and he would be all set.

Sunday afternoon family drives were our weekend entertainment. We always had to dress in our Sunday Best and never knew where we were going. But Dad couldn’t just drive off when we were all ready and sitting in the car, having first had a mini-squabble on who would be getting the window seats in the back. We would sit and wait patiently as he polished the windscreen, and wiped the long iridescent green 50’s Chevy to its full glory. Cars weren’t air-conditioned back then, and since I was the one who could get carsick, I would whine to claim the window “in case”. I don’t remember having a radio in the car, because long drives were also occasions for singing together and games like “I spy spy with my little eye something beginning with a…..” Sometimes we would stop off for ice cream and always for freshly baked, hot loaves of bread. Some of those hot hops breads never made it home! Dad loved Extra Strongs, and would stop at the parlour (as little shops in Trinidad are called) to buy little brown paper bags full of them. To this day, the taste of peppermints remind me of Dad. Oh, another thought just crossed my mind - Daddy never used foul language, I never heard him utter a nasty curse word, and he didn't permit it either!

As I write this, it is Father’s Day 2021. My childhood memories in Trinidad have been triggered. What would we be doing as a family? I'm remembering the time when there were only 3 of us, that later grew to 7. We children would have made our own cards for him, he would be playing the music he loved on his treasured Grundig radiogram while a nice Sunday lunch was being prepared, starting with callaloo and crab. Among his LP’s were Stanley Black's "Cuban Moonlight", Mantovani, James Last, Mario Lanza, Glen Miller & his Orchestra and every Broadway show that he could get his hands on, not to forget his favourite Trini Winnifred Atwell. Or perhaps after a long drive for a day at Maracas Bay he would be making us children proud to have the only father on the entire beach who did a perfect handstand, then walked all the way into the sea on his hands, ending with a flourish as he entered the shallow surf.  This special man we were blessed to call our father, the one who made us feel safe and protected. He has coloured our world beyond measure.
 

Between the lines of these yellow foolscap pages filled with his handwritten stories, we have the gift of a lifetime, and we are so grateful for this legacy.

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These are some of our treasured pages, and more will be added as I continue to transcribe them.  My father labelled the folder of his writings:

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"TALES OF ANDREW"