James Nimmo
When the mood took him, Dad would sometimes begin a class of new students by telling them that it had been scientifically proven, that at the height of her sexuality, Marilyn Monroe could hold a male audience’s complete attention for seven minutes, and he was about to attempt the same feat teaching economics for three hours!
While I promise not to attempt that feat today, It’s never lost on me, that the only time people gather in a room, and focus absolutely on you, is when you’ve died. And so, I make no excuses for taking some time out today, to talk about, and remember, the man who it has been the greatest privilege of my life, to call Dad.
On behalf of my Mum, my sister Liz, (or Elizabeth as my father always insisted on calling her), my brother in law, Reuben, Phoebe, Taylor and Alexander, I want to begin by expressing our sincere and heartfelt gratitude to each of you for taking time to come today, and honour Jim, although he would be the first to ask why you aren’t out doing something more useful with your time!
A husband, a father, a grandfather, an Uncle, a colleague, a friend. Whatever Dad was to you, one thing I am certain of, is that he will have made a positive impact on your life, because that’s what Dad did. In his unique, quiet, unfussy way, he impacted on people.
You know, over the past three weeks, I have spent a considerable amount of time saying;
“Really, what? Dad?”. You see, to us, he was Dad. Don’t get me wrong, he was a truly remarkable Dad, just as he was a devoted husband, and an adoring grandad. But that’s overall, how we saw him. We lived with him in that kind of bubble. And the reason for that, is because he never talked about his achievements, the things he did to help others. My Nan (Mum’s mum), always referred to Dad as a “dark horse” for that very reason. Here was a man, who began his working life as a motor mechanic, and ended it over fifty years later, as a highly respected and sought after lecturer in Supervisory Management, basically teaching captains of industry how to be better at what they did. And along the way, he helped literally thousands of people, to better themselves. To gain a qualification which maybe got them the job they wanted, or that longed for promotion. And of course it wasn’t just adults he will have helped. Through his thirty plus years as a Governor at
St. Aldhelm’s School, and a member of the PTA, Dad will have had some kind of influence over the educations of thousands of young people too. Former headteacher, Averil Bowyer, remembers Dad with great fondness and that in his role, he wore many hats and had a number of titles. He was Chair of the staffing and Personnel committee, and also Finance. For many here today their first meeting with Dad will have been facing the interview panel for a position at school. In fact, we were very touched to receive a beautiful card from Scott, the current head teacher who Dad appointed to his first post at the school, and says that without that first opportunity, he wouldn’t be where he is today. He was a hands on governor, not only giving his knowledge and expertise, but also a commitment and willingness to give a hand when needed. This included accompanying children and staff on both day, and residential trips, as well as numerous visits to this very building.
Now, if you’re wondering what drove him to take such an active role in the school, I am sure, at first, it was because both Liz and I were pupils there, and of course, Mum was the administrator for many years too. But such was Dad’s passion for the school, and for education, he continued these roles long after we had left. And a passion is what it was. A passion to educate. Both in his professional life, and in volunteering. From his time as a sailing and canoeing instructor with the Poole and Dorset Adventure Centre, to his years with 3rd Parkstone Scout Group as their quartermaster, as we look back over his life, and career, its education that has driven him, from beginning to end.
James Nimmo was born on 20th March 1940, to Harriet and James Nimmo. Harriet was a strong Yorkshire woman, a woman who had, in the 1920’s been a nurse on the cruise ships taking passengers to various stops along the African coast. And during the stopovers, Harriet would go into the rural villages, and tend to the sick. Dad’s Dad, our grandfather, was a soft spoken Scotsman, with a passion for all things horticulture, flowers and trees. He was the Park Superintendent in Princes Street Gardens in Edinburgh for many years, before taking up the same senior post at Poole Park, and was responsible for much of the layout of the park as we see it today.
It’s fair to say, that Dad was extremely proud of the heritage his parents gave him, and in particular his Scottish roots. We spent many family holidays north of the border, and it was in Scotland that Liz and I had our very first experience of the luxuries of a motel. It says a lot for Dad’s life long sense of adventure that he would choose sleeping under canvas over a hotel room any day of the week. And so it was, we found ourselves on the Isle of Skye, being battered by the end of the Fast Net gales. By 4 in the morning, after a night of tying down the tents, Dad had admitted defeat, telling Mum, “if it goes, it goes!”. He bundled us up into the back of the car and contemplated what, for him, was greater defeat. A night in a hotel!
While money was always tight (I could still tell you the name of the bank manager who wrote to Mum and Dad, shall we say, frequently!), there was always a summer holiday to go on. Time away, and time together. They made sure of that. Dad was adamant that we should see our own country first before we saw the world, and so we travelled extensively in the UK, and I only went abroad for the first time when I was eleven. Before that, we had been to Scotland, Wales, the Lakes, Devon, Cornwall, York among others. (The exception was London, the best part of which, Dad said, was the train leaving Waterloo!). But had it not been for those holidays, we would never have experienced pony trekking through the Devonshire countryside, or fishing in the Scottish lochs. We wouldn’t have surfed in the seas around Newquay, nor witnessed Dad, still fully dressed, up to his waist in the icey waters of Derwentwater teaching someone to roll a canoe. We wouldn’t have re-enacted with him the Swallows & Amazons story on Windermere, or climbed the likes of Helvelyn and Great Gable. We wouldn’t have searched out tiny islands in a sailing boat or had the opportunity to watch the sunrise through the mist at Evershot as the deer wandered undeterred by the large white box van we were using to sleep in. We wouldn’t have seen Paris for the first time, nor visited Belgium, Germany, Luxembourg and Switzerland as part of the epic (and frankly totally mad) 18 day tour of the continent, all the while, pulling a caravan behind us! And, we wouldn’t have met so many friends along the way, on the many campsites we frequented, a number of whom still keep in touch to this day.
And our travels weren’t restricted to private family holidays. Dad would spend many years involved with the preparation for Scout Camps alongside Ian Gray who I am delighted to say is here today. And not only did he ensure the kit was right, a full time job in itself, but was always present when camp was put up, and taken down. I have many memories of wet canvas strung over lines in every available space. Whenever he could, Dad would stay the course with the Scouts, and we would go along with him. I was a cub, and my sister was of an age when the Scouts were, shall we say, of interest! Ian and Dad’s greatest triumph in camping terms has to be the first ten day camp that 3rd Parkstone ever went on, in Derbyshire. And that was in the days when you created an entire camp in a field! We were on the advanced party that went to set up the infrastructure, and Ian drove the already ancient Scout bus carrying the Scouts. Dad always enjoyed working with, and teaching those scouts with him, how to properly pitch a Greenlander, dig latrines, chop wood and many other skills. It was always those kids who were allegedly badly behaved that ended up with Dad because he didn’t believe children were badly behaved. He just believed they needed stuff to do!. It was on this camp that we had the chance to try rock climbing, canoeing and caving, all of which Dad participated in with the rest of the troop. And the centrepiece of the camp was the climbing of Kinder Scout. Dad wasn’t one for sympathy, and pushed everyone to achieve their goals, not allowing people to give up when the going got tough. And it was halfway up a rock face that Liz realised the levels that Dad’s sympathy went to. Stuck, with no way up, and no way down, Dad stood at the base of the cliff and offered what he always called “Words of encouragement”. Anyone who ever received Dad’s “words of encouragement” will know how that went! I believe Liz suggested Dad might like to come and join her, and Dad reminded Liz that she was a Nimmo!
Of course, there came a time when Liz and I stopped travelling with Mum and Dad, but they continued to take trips at home and abroad. I think while Mum would have been perfectly happy to simply be picked up and put at her destination, a form of holiday tardis if you will, for Dad, the adventure began before the car pulled off of the driveway. I am certain this need to plan came from his days of scout camps, and taking on such challenges as walking the Pennine Way. As teenagers and part of the Youth Clubs, Mum and Dad, among a number of their friends would set off across Europe in some kind of minibus and, as Dad always said, this is when travelling, was proper travelling. And so, Maps would be spread across the table, routes planned, stops agreed. You can only imagine his horror when Mum got her first iPhone, and stood next to him as it said;
“At the next roundabout, turn right!”
There was only one problem with letting Mum and Dad go off on their travels. They did have an unnerving habit of attracting trouble. It became a standing joke among the family that, before they could be allowed out of Wimborne, a list of people needed to be informed. This included the local coastguard, air and sea rescue, ambulance, fire, police, the Foreign Office, and high level government! Mum and Dad encountered a number of natural disasters on their travels, mostly involving flooding and other weather related events. However, a trip to Turkey saw something rather different, much more serious, and Dad approaching it in his usual, nonchalant way. A major Earthquake rocked the city where Mum and Dad were staying, and they were evacuated and essentially forced to sleep in the streets for fear of building collapse. Back home, there were frantic calls to the Foreign Office, trying to locate them, with the message that there were no UK citizens in that region not really helping with my sister’s blood pressure. Many people had died, and reports of aftershocks continued to come through. After 36 hours without contact, we decided that if nothing was heard by morning, we would book flights and try to locate them ourselves. Then came the phone call that in a nutshell, sums up my father to a tee. It went something like this;
Hello?
Elizabeth?
Dad!
Elizabeth, its your father!
Oh my God Dad, we’ve been worried sick about you!
Why?
Well, the earthquake! It looks awful on the news! Are you OK? Is Mum OK?
Oh yes, we’re both fine. Its been a bit inconvenient, can’t sleep in the hotel in case it collapses, no phone lines.
You need to get out of there Dad.
Whatever for? Its alright. Now, the reason why I am calling, is because your mother and I are in this market, and they’ve got aluminium culenders! Do you need an aluminium culender?
What followed after that, I would not dare repeat from a pulpit in a church, but lets just say that Dad soon knew that Liz didn’t want an aluminium culender!
In fact, as the Foreign Office laid on flights to get people out, Dad took some persuading, and only agreed to leave in the end because they were saying the water was contaminated and he might catch Typhoid!
I mentioned earlier that Dad was very proud of his Scottish heritage, and his family roots, Growing up, the family coat of arms hung in the lounge, and I will be honest, I didn’t really take much notice of it. That coat of arms is used in today’s order of service, but what’s missing from it, is the family motto. “I show, not boast”. “I show, not Boast”. Now I don’t imagine for one second, my father deliberately set out to reflect that motto in the way he lived his life, but actually, those four words absolutely sum up the man he was. He never bragged about the things he could do or did do, because he was too busy getting on and doing them.
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Dad had a tremendous work ethic. As far as I can remember, and I think Mum would testify to this, Dad would go out to work at eight in the morning, come home to eat with us at five, and then go back to work again to teach classes in the evening between six and nine. And that was often five days a week. But you know, he would still come home and have the time, and the energy, to put us to bed (or actually invariably wake us up, to then put us to bed again!), and that would include a story, more often than not, made up in his imagination. He would hold us transfixed by the adventures of Lucinda – Anne, a girl who lived on a farm in the Yorkshire Dales, and her friend, Arabella. Later we would often suggest to Dad that he wrote the stories down, but sadly they remained only in his imagination.
Dad’s work ethic has certainly been handed down to myself and my sister, and was instilled in us from a very young age. It actually extended beyond his own work, and to our time at school too.
Now, I should probably point out to you, that Dad had two distinct positions when it came to whether or not you were fit to go to work or to school. Dead, and not dead. And if you were not dead, then you were fit to go to school. I recall a number of times when my sister has approached Dad to say she didn’t feel well, and felt she shouldn’t go to school, shortly followed by her stomping around the house mumbling “You’ve got to be dead not to do to school in this house!”
Justine and Bob, both former colleagues of Dad have kindly shared their memories of working with him, and its this work ethic that shines through from them both. Never late, always available, greatly respected by both staff and students, a problem solver, calm in a crisis, no matter what the circumstances, wise, a sense of humour, uncompromising. The fact is, that Dad absolutely loved his job. And this extended beyond the four walls of the college. Bob and Dad ran a number of residentials to Jersey, and apart from an occasion when a large built student, scared of flying, jammed himself into the aircraft doorway shouting “I canna do it Jim” (you can imagine how that ended!), all usually went well. Bob recalls Dad’s uncompromising approach to the presentations, as one group, who decided they would prefer to spend Saturday night drinking than preparing, fronted up on the Sunday morning, much the worse for ware, to tell Dad they weren’t ready. Without missing a beat, Dad told them it was no problem at all, and he looked forward to watching them standing on stage in silence for twenty minutes, but to be assured they would be standing on stage. Needless to say, they were ready!
Justine commonly referred to Dad as “Uncle Jim” because of his capacity to solve any problem put before him. The calmest in the room he could be relied on to positively respond to whatever happened. He led numerous cohorts through the Supervisory Management modules of the NEBSM courses, and was greatly respected by those before him because they were often holding down full time work and families as well as studying, and he absolutely knew what that was like. Justine remembers Dad’s passion for education, and its value for all, irrespective of background, class, creed or wealth, and this was his main driver.
Dad always said it was important to leave while people were still asking for you, and this he did, as I recall at the age of 71, ending his time in teaching at Kingston Maurward Agricultural College in Dorchester. Imagine how he felt about combining two of his great passions in that place. Education, and animals. What a way to end a career!
I think we were worried about what retirement would look like for Dad. I used to tell Mum she should be careful what she wished for when she wanted him home more, but while he definitely aged more quickly, he responded well, throwing himself into existing passions, and embracing new ones, like bee keeping and learning French (I’m convinced this was nothing more than a social activity as his grasp of the language remained primitive at best!). The start of my business almost at the same time as he retired enabled him to keep up to date with new legislation surrounding health and safety, personnel etc as a Director and my mentor, and the calmness that Bob and Justine referred to was very much in evidence when I sat with him sharing concerns about one thing or another. As only Dad could, he would listen intently, only responding with the words “Right” and “OK”. This was followed by “So”, before he launched into action to solve whatever issue it might be. With Mum in the background telling me it was all going to be fine, without necessarily knowing what the actual problem was (and she was always right too), they were both very proud of our achievements to date. The fact Dad lays before us today, looked after by the truly amazing people who work for us, and to a person he totally respected, would sit well with him, I know.
I want to reflect, all too briefly, on what was, without doubt, Dad’s greatest passion. His family. He has been a constant in all our lives, and that’s what makes his absence all the harder now. Dad was never one for big expressions of love or passion (when I asked Mum how he proposed, she basically told him that if he didn’t ask her to marry him, she would find someone who would, and when it rained constantly on their wedding day, he always maintained that was Mother Nature weeping for him), but we were never in doubt that he loved us. As children, we both knew the difference between right and wrong, and Dad could, at times, be a little intimidating, but healthy intimidating if that makes sense. As the more rebellious of the two of us, I am sure Liz pushed him to his limits sometimes, but I know it was the fear of what he would do that kept her from being arrested! As children growing up, we undoubtedly took the love of our parents and stability they brought as the norm, but having since observed Dad with my own step sons, and Phoebe, I have come to realise just how exceptional it all was. From the moment I introduced Taylor, just five at the time I met Miranda, to my parents, they didn’t miss a beat, embracing him as they would their own. Dad showed a real interest in T’s life and schooling, always wanting an update when I returned from Australia, and revelled in looking at school reports, and other feedback. And it was Dad who T spoke to during his last visit to the UK, about his plans for the future, education and work. He always had a real passion for Taylor’s future. Alexander followed, and benefited from the enduring love of my parents from moment one, once again with Dad always keen to know how he was progressing at school, enjoying his reports and portfolios. Dad was immensely proud of who both the boys are becoming, and the love and support Mum and he showed the boys is why, inspite of the distance between them, something I know Dad struggled with more than he ever let on, the devotion, both ways prevailed. Dad loved the pictures from Australia, the drawings that Alexander always sent back with me, and kept them all. And it says a lot that we found pictures of both boys tucked away in his bedside drawer just the other day.
Then of course came Phoebe! They say a picture paints a thousand words and a glance through today’s order of service shows just how close she and Dad became. Just as in all other aspects of Dad’s life, their bond developed quietly, without fuss, and will be something I know Phoebe will cherish for the rest of her life. But look closely, and what do you see? That passion for education once again. It was Dad who would make Phoebe do her spellings, her times tables, and had the patience to overcome the ensuing push back when she didn’t want to (she’s her mother’s daughter!). Just as he had with Taylor and Alex, Dad showed Phoebe the great outdoors, and made sure she understood that there’s a big world out there. And while she may not know it now, as she continues to grow into the amazing person she is becoming, Dad will be somewhere very near, a whisper in her ear asking;
“How do you spell…….?
And just as Dad supported Liz and I’s schooling through his role as Governor and PTA, he was supporting Phoebe until recently with visits to the school to hear reading, walking children to church and so on. In fact, it seems appropriate that, the day he was admitted to hospital for the final time, was spent at Phoebe’s school watching an assembly.
Inspite of feeling pretty wretched by then, we know he went very willingly, and thoroughly enjoyed himself.
Dad always said the time to stop talking is when they start shifting in their seats. Our great friend from the US, Grady, who was able to see Dad just two days before he died, said to me just the other day;
“Just remember Steve, you will never be able to say enough that does your Dad justice”, and he was so right. In preparing these words for today, I have come to realise just what a rich life Dad had, and we should count our blessings for that. Never has a person been more deserving of the friendships he has enjoyed over the years, because it was never a one way street. I never saw Dad fall out with anyone, and if he ever disagreed, it was usually because he was right. There are occasions over recent years, when Dad had every right to express a view on the things that had happened close to him, things that no doubt hurt him deeply, but he never did. There is absolutely nothing that phased him, and between us, I think Liz and I have given him a number of reasons to be phased.
There are endless memories of Dad, and I am sure, like me, you will all have your own individual memories. I hope you will take a few moments to recall some of them as we listen to one of Dad’s absolute favourite pieces from “Riverdance”. I hope too that you will join us after the service to share more of those memories with us. For me, it will be the hours we spent in the sea at Sandbanks playing on the dingy which was only ever used upside down!. It will be the times out on boats, fishing, no phones then, and tossing up between staying an hour longer, and getting a rollicking from Mum when we got home. It will be the unique ways Dad used to describe people’s confused states or lack of ability which have now woven themselves into our everyday language;
“He doesn’t know whether he’s on this earth or fuller’s earth”, or
“He won’t be able to do that as long as he’s got a hole in his head”,
and “he doesn’t know whether he’s bored, punched, or countersunk”
And I will never forget Dad’s approach to discipline summed up by a particular night when my sister and a friend had drunk too much, actually from Dad’s drinks cabinet, and she woke Dad throwing up in the bathroom. He went to her, assisted in whichever way he did, said nothing other than “we’ll discuss this in the morning”. I believe Liz is still waiting to have that discussion. You see, Dad understood that we draw our own lines, and know where they are. When we overstep them, there is nothing he can say to make us more disappointed in ourselves, or uncomfortable with what we have done. For him, that was enough.
I will always cherish the times spent with Dad, just the two of us, and how lucky I am that there were plenty of them. And ultimately, I am blessed that I always had his support.
From the early days of standing on the sidelines watching me play football and rugby, to latterly when he never asked me when I was going to get a proper job, Dad never once didn’t support me in what I was doing.
Mum, you are blessed with knowing that Dad’s devotion to you never faded. He loved you absolutely and completely. He was challenging at times, well, more than just at times, but he was also extraordinarily lucky to have you by his side for well over fifty years. What an achievement to celebrate fifty years of marriage, and wasn’t he well, too!
Liz, inspite of the fact you sometimes fought like cat and dog, you were always the apple of his eye. His little girl. There is nothing he wouldn’t have done for you. Reuben, you got from Dad the greatest gift he could give you, and that was his love and his respect. He knew that his daughter would always be looked after and protected, and that meant the world to him. And to Taylor, Alexander and Phoebe. Beautiful Phoebe. Your Grandad loved you so very much. He revelled in your successes, and knew how amazing you all truly are. He will be watching, somewhere near. He will always be with you.
There are so many things that remain unsaid today. I could tell you about Dad’s complete incapacity to take children anywhere, and not get them wet and dirty. I could tell you about the many barbecues we had, usually in the rain, and undeterred, Dad stood under an umbrella, the smoke billowing into its canopy and completely enveloping him. I could tell you about Dad’s invitation to Buckingham Palace for a garden party, and being the only person who didn’t really understand why he received such recognition. I could tell you about Dad being totally incapable of shutting cupboard doors in the kitchen, and his incredibly untidy shed and garage, oh and that he always knew where everything was! And I could tell you about days laying under a car with a gearbox balanced on my chest while Dad changed old for new. I think I was about six at the time! And I could tell you about the amazing thing he did each year, that he is so fondly remembered for (many of you will know what I am talking about), but to do so would be to let light in on the magic!
And so, at 6.15pm on Tuesday 12th February, it all came to a close. Peacefully, swiftly, without any great amount of medication, Dad slipped away from us. It will always be a matter of great privilege to me to have been with him, and to see for myself that he went on his own terms. But more than that, the evening before, by now hardly able to speak, he had been able to first ask his adored daughter what she was crying for (very typical of Dad), and to tell her that he loved her. And then on Tuesday morning, the last words I ever heard him utter were for my Mum, the person he had devoted his life to. He simply said “I love you too”. In the words of one of the chaplaincy team at Poole Hospital, in the belief that there is so much more to come for us all, what a beautiful way to end a truly remarkable chapter.
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