I think of my father often, sometimes feeling his presence, sometimes talking to him, telling him I love him. Sometimes I feel this need to say sorry, sorry about how our life together was so up and down, about being angry with him for so long, for not talking to him sooner about things he needed to hear from me, about things I needed to know about him, from him, about my family, about why I didn't see him for so long. My father passed away several years ago. I can't call him up and say Happy Fathers Day nor can I make him one of my handmade cards. So today I thought I would honour my dad with a blog post about him, after all he is a big piece of my story.
My dad was born in Toronto in 1919. He came from a large family. His father's side of that family were Canadian several generations back while his mother was from Liverpool. He was the oldest of seven children. He delivered groceries on a bicycle as a kid in all kinds of weather sometimes hauling a wagon up some steep hill. The family moved a lot mainly due to financial reasons. As he said: "it was cheaper to move than pay rent". I'm sure his childhood had a big influence on his work hard, account for every penny, don't buy unless you can pay for it, preferably in cash, attitude. It was how he saved for a house that would provide a place for my nan and grandpa to live out most of their elderly years.
I was amazed at my dad. I know he never had the opportunity to go to high school, I'm not even sure he finished grade school, but he was smart. He knew so much, probably from reading, listening to the news. He could build anything he put his mind too. He taught himself just about everything he knew how to do. Sometimes he would ask me a question to see if I knew the answer and when I did he'd tell me I was a pretty smart kid. Those words made my heart sing. My dad could tell you where every penny he earned went, something I didn't learn from him. I would have loved to learn how to do wood working from him. I never asked him though thinking that he would think that wasn't a girl thing to do or maybe he would just say "I don't think so" and then I'd be disappointed or angry with him but would never say so.
My dad worked in a factory pretty much his entire working life. It was where he met my mother and my step-mother. He started off sweeping floors. He was never ashamed of his work nor should he have been. He worked on a machine very much like a guillotine with a 50 inch blade cutting reams of paper to specific sizes. Through his hard work and knowledge of the business, he eventually was promoted to Head of Purchasing and Shipping. He had to take early retirement when the factory was going to be relocated. At the age of 62 he saw no reason to start over in another city.
My father served in the 2nd World War with the Queens Own Rifles. He didn't speak a great deal about the war but when he did it was honest. I remember him saying "it's not like in the movies". He said there were times when nothing would happen and other days when you prayed you'd make it through the day. He spoke about how it felt to stand up and look at someone else, someone who was suppose to be the enemy and they were just another young kid like you and you were suppose to kill them. He was hit by shrapnel one day. He said he was digging a hole to sleep in for cover when he heard a buzzing noise. He ducked down and heard this explosion; there was a huge hole in the trench behind him. He said that if he hadn't ducked down he would have had his head taken off. When he got back to Canada he found out he had tuberculosis and was hospitalized for 1 1/2 years and then had to stay home for another year. After that he had to go for regular check-ups for many years.
My parents separated when I was fifteen months old. I don't really know what happened between my dad and mom. I've heard different stories from each of them and from other family members. I know that my mother and father loved each other to the day each of them died. That may seem strange but I think it's kind of sad really when I think about it. I remember when my mom was recovering from lung cancer I was rubbing her scar with some lotion. I said she needed some hot young guy to rub it on. She told me the only man she wanted to rub lotion on her was my dad. She was in her early seventies at this point and they had been separated for at least forty years. When my mom was dying I asked my dad if he would come and see her; she had asked me to call him. She told me she wanted to say sorry to him. He said he couldn't, he wanted to remember her the way she was before, that it would hurt him to see her suffering.
I always thought my dad was kind of handsome. He cared about how he dressed and looked. I use to love to hear him gargling in the bathroom. Sometimes I would stand outside the door and mimic the noise. He always helped around the house, with grocery shopping, doing dishes, and cooking breakfast on the weekends. He loved to have fun and could be playful with the kids. I remember Mary telling me a story about how one time when they were grocery shopping he threw a kid like tantrum in front of this little boy who wasn't very happy. They were in the cereal aisle when he spotted the boy. He told Mary he wanted some box of cereal because of the toy and Mary said no. He demanded the cereal and Mary kept saying no. He said if he didn't get it he would stomp his feet. Mary told him 'too bad' and so there was my dad in the grocery store stomping his feet and pretending to cry. The little boy started to laugh and made his mom look at my dad. I could picture my dad doing this. He had a good heart.
During the last years of his life he lost most of his vision due to macular degenerative disease. My step-mother was in a nursing home by this time. He lived on his own, cooking and cleaning for himself, doing his own shopping, and travelled on the bus everyday to visit my step-mother. He found this lack of vision frustrating at times. He had a special machine that enlarged everything to help him read the mail or his daily newspaper. Eventually he knew he couldn't live on his own any longer and moved into the nursing home with my step-mother. We had talked about how he could come and live here on the coast with me after Mary died but that never happened; she outlived him despite the doctors prognosis for her.
The Christmas after he moved into the nursing home, my son and I went to visit him during the holidays. I hated him being there. I hated that nursing home. I know hate is a big word but it is the only word I can use to describe how I felt. I remember on the last day of our visit I cried when we left. I told my son I felt like I was saying good-bye to my dad, that I would never see him again. He died two months later on the night of February 14th, the same day he had married my mom.
My father and I had this on again, off again kind of relationship. I loved him so very much but at times felt that I was a big disappointment to him. He never said those words but sometimes I could just tell by his reactions, by that silence. There was so much I wanted to tell him, so much I wanted to say but it felt hard, like would he understand, would he hear me, would he know how much I loved him and wanted him to be proud of me. My dad and I were separated first when I was fifteen months old when my mother and I went to live in Scotland and then again when I was around 6. We didn't see each other for almost 10 years after that. Through all our struggles, separations, disagreements, I never stopped loving him. At some point in my adult life I took him down off that pedestal, realizing he was just an ordinary man with faults just like the rest of us. I know in my heart that he loved me.
So today dad I send you my love and gratitude. Happy Fathers Day.
And what about you; what are your memories, your favourite moments with your dad, your feelings about your dad, your relationship with him.
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