Food for Thought
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About this ebook
Harry Milson Smith was born in a small coal mining village in Derbyshire, England in 1927.
Having lost his father at age five, he was raised by his mother and step father, amongst siblings and step-siblings in humble, some might say impoverished, surroundings. With every penny in demand to keep the home functioning, very little priority was placed on education. Despite having a love for learning and a bright mind and the offer of a scholarship to the local central selective school, Harry was removed from school at age fourteen, and placed in a job delivering milk and subsequently was given a job in the local colliery.
He met the love of his life at age nineteen, a sixteen year old local hair dresser named Marion Peach. They courted then wed four years later.
Harry and Marion, along with their three daughters, became “ten pound Poms” in 1966 and boarded the Castel Felice bound for Sydney, Australia.
Harry’s first job after disembarking was delivering bread. He later began some contract cleaning work and so began Smith’s Cleaning Service. Harry continued his cleaning business, domestic and commercial, windows and carpet shampooing until age 87.
So far, one might think this a fairly unremarkable life.
“One” would be wrong. The life Harry led with his family in Australia set him apart in the minds and hearts of his family as an exemplary man. An exemplary husband, father, and grandfather.
Harry put pen to paper in 1991 to capture some rambling thoughts and perhaps format them into a book one day.
On the eve of Harry’s ninetieth birthday Food for Thought has been finally published.
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Food for Thought - Harry M. Smith
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
One man’s meat is another man’s poison
Proverb (author unknown)
by
Harry M. Smith
This is an IndieMosh book
brought to you by MoshPit Publishing
an imprint of Mosher’s Business Support Pty Ltd
PO BOX 147
Hazelbrook NSW 2779
http://www.indiemosh.com.au/
Copyright 2017 © Harry Smith
All rights reserved
Licence Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author and publisher.
Dedication
Harry Milson Smith, our dad, was born in Derbyshire, England, in 1927, in a small coal mining village called Bolsover, or as the locals pronounce it: Boser
. To say his childhood was somewhat impoverished is no exaggeration. In fact Dickensian
fits the bill.
His father died when Dad was five years old. A step father appeared in the home some time afterwards, and step siblings followed. Education was given no priority: as soon as you were old enough to earn pocket money, let alone wages, your contribution was needed. Hence as a skinny, undernourished kid, our dad began a cycling milk round to the neighbouring farms.
Though he loved learning, and had a bright mind, his environment paid no respect to these attributes. At age 13 he was offered a scholarship to the local grammar school. He took the letter of offer home to his parents. They sent him back to school the next day with a reply letter in his pocket. Not knowing the contents of the letter, he handed it to the school principal. Shortly afterwards, having turned 14, his step father told him he did not need to go back to school anymore – he had found him a job in the local colliery. Come Monday he would begin his life as a coal miner.
One might have considered Dad’s life quite unremarkable: a manual worker all his life, and no trophies on the shelf, a very ordinary man.
Well, One
would be wrong. Our dad is a hero. Plain and simple.
Having met the love of his life when he was nineteen and she was sixteen, he courted local hair dresser Marion Peach for four years. They married in the local church, celebrated in the attached hall as every other local couple did. The wedding dress was sewn by her uncle, and the food prepared by ladies in the family.
And so began their journey as a married couple and, a few years later, as a family.
This is the part that we got to witness.
In 1966 Harry and Marion took the enormous step of paying their 10 quid and with three little girls in tow, boarded the Castel Felice bound for Sydney, Australia. They were leaving behind the only village they had ever lived in. In fact the same village their parents had lived in. The same village where even moving one or two villages further away was considered almost traitorous! They were leaving a life where your beginnings were known to all, your middles were assumed by all, and your endings completely predictable to all. Perhaps this was the point. Board that boat, or live a life the same as everyone else.
Growing up in Australia was the greatest gift our parents could have given us. We were not well off but this never really occurred to us. Dad took his first job after disembarking delivering bread in Sydney. He then began finding work as a cleaner, and so began Smith’s Cleaning Service, general cleaning, windows and carpets, commercial or domestic. Dad never stopped cleaning until a couple of years ago when he was 87. In fact, for his 80th birthday we bought him a much improved, easier to use, industrial carpet cleaning machine.
It hasn’t all been sunshine and roses, though. Unthinkable tragedy afflicted our blessed little family a few years after arriving. Mum and dad had a fourth child, a son, Adam Christopher Smith, the first proper Aussie in the family. Adam drowned at the age of three. Everything changed. Grief defined our family for many, many months. Friends and neighbours tried, but could not know how, to comfort us. It seemed all the world was black.
Through the mail arrived a book addressed to Mum and Dad. The book was sent by a virtual stranger. It was a Christian book. The book became the catalyst for the salvation of our family, salvation in every way a family can be saved. Saved from desolation. Saved from life-sucking grief. Saved from living, yet being dead, all at the same time. The book was the first ray of light to break through the immense darkness, and the family began a journey which led ultimately to meeting Jesus. The source of our salvation. The source of such gracious love that could reach two very broken parents in the deepest, darkest, loneliest, corners of their souls, and gently draw them back into light, and into life. We owe Him everything.
And so here we are on the occasion of Dad’s 90th birthday. As we look back over our lives it is not an exaggeration to say that our dad is our hero. Not for reasons of medals won on the battlefield, or trophies earned for excellence. No. For reasons of much greater significance.
During Dad’s years of dragging coal from the bowels of the earth, toiling away miles below the surface, on his knees, in tunnels 3ft high, he also used that keen mind of his to put himself through further education: he learned to speak French, and joined a debating group. He wrote poetry, mostly lovey dovey stuff for our mother.
If our mother were alive now, she would testify to his exemplary efforts as a husband. He was firstly, and quite importantly, super dooper handsome! He was romantic, he was hard working, and above all, he cherished his wife in a way that was the envy of all Mum’s friends.
As a dad of girls he is absolutely amazing. Not perfect. But that doesn’t seem to matter.
We girls are in our fifties and sixties now, and in all those years we have never known what it would be like to question our father’s loving devotion to us. His willingness to sacrifice his time, energy, money, and even his potential, for our wellbeing is something we blissfully have taken for granted.
The notion that being a girl ought to have accompanying limitations on our goals and aspirations never actually entered our heads. Dad championed our abilities, dreams, plans (hare brained or otherwise), and in fact he always felt we were gifted with so much more than we recognised in ourselves.
Dad is the wisest person on earth! No truly. His advice is the first and most important we ever seek. And many, many others do the same. His patient contemplation of the scenario before him always results in some pearl of wisdom that can quell the storm, or change our perspective, or most importantly, will help us figure out the correct word to use in a sentence.
He perhaps wasn’t always so wise. But a household with one wife and three daughters was always having a crisis! He got plenty of practice. And practice has made him perfect.
What a luxury to grow up with this kind of father.
It is such an honour to bring this book into printed form and to share it with you.
Dad sat down to put rambling thoughts on paper back in 1991. They sat mostly on paper, and later on computer, occasionally being added to, and tinkered with, over the years.
Well, any rambling thought that Dad has is a rambling thought worth listening to.
And so here we have Food for Thought by Harry M. Smith – our dad. Lucky us.
Lorraine Gouldson ~ Dawn Floyd ~ Danielle Small
Foreword
I find it warmingly pleasant to think of God and His presence as a beautiful valley. We each approach the valley from our various pathways, each seeing the scene from a different perspective, every turn on the path opening up new vistas, and each chronological stage of our journey requiring a new focus, sometimes seeing the heavenly valley from a distance, sometimes seeming quite close, but ever drawing nearer and progressing unerringly towards that delightful destination. That destination where all our hassles, differences, torments and sadness are overwhelmed by His presence. That place that eye has not seen, those sounds that as yet no ear has heard, those never-yet experienced or imagined delights that have not yet entered into the heart of man.
This book is a way of sharing my particular perspective or pathway which will sometimes seem to bear little relationship to that of the reader, but at other times will bear a significant relationship because we are all heading toward the same goal, all seeing a different aspect of the same scene, and all drawn by the love of the same God whose presence we approach.
The Joke
Sam was in dire trouble. His business had gone bust and he was in dire financial straits. He was