My Dad passed away eight years ago, the last one to go in his own family and in-laws and he made no bones about it either.
My most vivid memory was when I was about nine years old. I was playing in the yard near the road when a speeding driver raced by and that angered my Dad. Always annoyed about the speeders on Main Street and now, decades later, nothing has changed. He waited there as a hunter in hiding for his prey to return. Sure enough, the driver again was speeding up as he came our way. My Dad stepped into the middle of the road and stood there defiantly. The driver had two choices, run him down or stop. He did stop without much margin for error. The two had loud words after which the driver reluctantly apologized then slowly drove off. I was so proud of my Dad for risking his life. That shared memory served each of us differently: for me, he was the bravest man in the world; for him, he just did what a father should do.
When my world turned upside down when I was 60, he suggested I come back home. In essence, I was to look after him, I thought but it seemed he intended to look after me. He would consistently remind me of my appointments and telephone messages. He was a pest in that regard but with my memory distractions some of those appointments I would surely have missed.
Soon, I found I was exchanging words with him like I did as a teenager; not competitors, just at odds. It started with the garden. He always wanted to start from the opposite end of the row. When sawing a board, I wanted to cut from one end, he wanted the other. Despite heated discussions, the job always got done however, with one of us agreeing to disagree. Dad was visiting me in Wasaga Beach once and we were about to install a new door, each with different approaches. Voices rose as we negotiated. Then we my ex, sobbing and while gasping for breath, shouted, “Why are you two always fighting?” In chorus, we both said, “We aren’t.”
One day a friend dropped in for coffee and sat with us at the kitchen table. Not unusual, but my Dad and I got into a chewing match about our raspberry bushes (trim or not to trim for the winter). Meanwhile my friend, an expert in that area, didn’t remark at all but rather sported this grin that expressed more than the obvious. After the awkward argument, I questioned his amusement. He said, “I just love to hear you guys bantering with each other.” I looked at him quizzically as he continued, “I wish I had a father just like yours.” I was flabbergasted.
There was one Saturday evening as a teen when I had the use of his car, I ended up in a drag race with a faster vehicle. Keeping pace was too much and the engine seized. The other guy towed me home. Dad didn’t find out until he went for the car to drive the family to church the next morning. I felt ashamed for not being up front and said, “It was too late when I got in.” We all walked to church but being there made me feel even worse. He didn’t make a big deal out of it, even after spending four evenings doing a motor-job at the local garage to save money. What a guy!
All my friends were always made welcome and they enjoyed chatting with him. That meant a lot to him and me too — almost. I recall once when home for a visit, all I heard about was my next-door neighbour and friend, who now worked with my father at CFB Petawawa. I’m afraid I got envious of their relationship. Not being able to hold it inside, I said to my father, “Why don`t you just adopt him,” as I stormed off.
Our relationship was dichotomized in a way. He lived through a depression saving buttons and bottle-caps and I tossing things out that weren’t used in a 30-day cycle. I suppose I was trying to reach his level by being competitive while he simply let me act out without interference. Maybe he was smarter than I was!
I didn’t have the insight to not let precious moments pass where I might have expressed my inner feelings. Except as a kid when he was my hero, we always differed as if an unbroken bond that locked us together. I admit it now, he was usually right …… but I never told him.
