I’m not sure how he got so smart, but I do remember going in to say goodnight to my parents once when I was a kid, and Dad was sitting up in bed reading an encyclopedia.

Dad went on to work an insane number of jobs. He was a postie, a butcher, a sewing machine mechanic, a security guard. At one point, he delivered frozen vegetables to Pentridge jail. He owned a fish and chip shop for a while, operated a crane, and worked in the statistics department of a steel manufacturer.

Before I became a writer, I worked an equally eclectic list of jobs: apple picker, T-shirt printer, golf-cart sandwich seller, adult film editor… I’m glad I get to tell stories for a living now, but I would have been happy working different jobs for the rest of my life. I think I got that from my dad. He showed me that true joy and happiness have nothing to do with your job. Those things come from family.

Sadly, that kind of thinking is unusual. Then again, my dad is an unusual guy. He lacks all that closed-off, macho, stoic stuff you’d expect from an Australian man in his 80s. He’s emotionally open and wildly supportive. He tells me and my siblings he’s proud of us every chance he gets, especially after one or two scotches. He hovers in bookshops to sell my books to unsuspecting customers. He’s watched my Netflix show six times.

Only once did I think he’d had trouble conveying something important. It was the end of a family weekend about 10 years ago. We’d all flown to Queensland to celebrate my eldest brother’s birthday. On the last day, we all went our separate ways again.

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My brother Jamie and I were sitting in a hire car, waiting to head to the airport. We’d all said goodbye, but Dad lingered, shifting from one foot to the other like he had something important to tell us and didn’t know how.

Jamie and I exchanged anxious glances. We were getting nervous. Was there bad news, or was he sad the weekend was over, sad that there weren’t enough weekends like this any more, sad that the best days were fading and would soon be gone forever? It turned out he just wanted to fart into our car. Jamie and I drove away with the windows down, howling with laughter.

My dad is my hero, and if I give my kid half of what he gave me, she’ll have everything she needs. In other words, one day, I too hope to fart into my daughter’s car. And who knows? Maybe she’ll fart into her own kid’s car, and that kid will fart into their kid’s hovercar, and I will have passed on a little piece of my dad.

The Ledge (Affirm Press) by Christian White is out September 24.

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