IT'S THAT MAN'S FATHER AGAIN?

New Zealand Listener, Volume 14, Issue 353, 29 March 1946, Page 18

IT'S THAT MAN'S FATHER AGAIN?

(Written for "The Listener" by

N.F.

B.

Y husband is over forty, quite old enough to have half a dozen hefty sons, but our babies all came girls, and we were just as proud of them as all normal parents are of their offspring of whichever sex. Never once did we wish any one of them had been a boy, at least, not until last week, and for the first time in my life I mourned the fact that my family is not a mixed one. Little does a certain very popular radio Quizmaster realise what he did to thousands of homes when he introduced the wrong man as "that man’s father."

"Once and for all," he announced, "we'll settle this question, The man was looking at his own photograph!" The only. man who never heard of that old rhyme was Adam. It is centuries older than Japhet’s father and every time it is mentioned there is argument. More than thirty years ago an adored oldest brother expounded the riddle to me and, when I heard the wrong answer given last week, I yelled. I wrote to the announcer giving the answer so clearly, step by step, "son of my father-my father’s son-that man’s father," etc. "Is that quite clear?" I asked my husband, to whom I refer on most issues. . "But it was his own photograph!" he said. I simply couldn’t believe my ears. The husband of my bosom had been one of the other camp all those years-all his life, he assured me. "But your father can’t be his own father," I protested, "Nobody says he is," he retorted. "But that’s what you say if you are looking at your own photograph." "No it isn’t. That man’s father is my father’s son; that’s me, isn’t it?"

"You mean ‘I,’ dearest." "No, it’s ‘myself,’ isn’t it?" ’ I left the room and went rummaging among some old photographs. There was one of my father-in-law, taken in the days when men wore hair (when they could) and.were proud of it. I don’t know whether he was prouder of the hair or the enormous cabbage rose in his buttonhole. He wore what my husband called a "dirtyshirt" waistcoat, which hid all evidence of a shirt except the collar. There was also a snap of my husband in uniform, which I thought was quite suitable for the purpose. "Look, dear, there’s your father, and there’s you. Now, that man’s father-

that’s your father, according to you is your father’s son.’ "No," he said, so patiently, pointing first to himself and then to his fatherand back to himself, "That man’s father is my father’s son, that’s myself." * * * WEEK later I still had not succeeded in converting him. I had no picture of his son. I had no son to be pictured. "Suppose you had a son, dear, Call him Ken, for example." "We'll call him George, after my father," he said decidedly. "Oh dear!" I thought, distractedcly, "I'll never convince him without a son." He became quite used to being asked "Is your father’s son going down town to-day?" or "Is your father’s son ready for tea?" and after I would glance at him to find a thoughtful look on his face which was quite encouraging. Then one morning I said, "You are your father’s son?" "Yes," he admitted. "And that man’s father is your father’s son?" (continued on next page)

(continued from previous page) His brows contracted in concentration. I waited hopefully. A few seconds later his ears started moving nearer the top of his head as his smile widened, "Don’t tell me you’ve seen it," I gasped. "After forty years!"’ he confessed ruefully. "Hip hurrah!" I shouted, but after the first excitement passed I felt rather flat, rather like Alexander after he had conquered the world. I had made the only convert I cared about and something had gone out of my life.