Tomorrow marks my first Fathers Day without my Dad. While sorting through some old photos last night, the memories of him were both overwhelming and heartwarming at the same time. I was so very, very fortunate to have such a great father. There's something to be said for the fact that I can't recall any unhappy memories of him. Not a single one. In all of our years together, we never had an argument of any type. I can't remember a time in my life that my father ever raised his voice to me or spoke to me in an unkind way. I doubt there are very many people who can say that about their relationship with a parent.
I have nothing but pleasant and fun things to remember about growing up with the Dad that I had. All of my childhood memories of him involve the two of us doing things together. I think I was pretty much his second shadow (when I wasn't trailing after my older sister), but if he ever found that annoying he certainly never let on. Any time Dad was working on whatever old beater of a car he had at the time, I'd be right beside him holding a wrench or some other kind of tool, likely asking a million irritating questions. If he was working in the yard or on a project, I was there too. I probably wasn't a whole lot of help to him, but wherever he was is where I wanted to be. Some of that stuff with the tools must have stayed somewhere in the back of my mind, and it's starting to finally pay off. He'd get a real kick now out of watching me try to do things the way I remember him doing them all those years ago. Dad was meticulous about his tools and taking care of what he had. I've discovered that I'm the same way with my own tools, even though up until the past year the only tool I owned was a craft knife.
My father spent years trying to get me to enjoy active living, and when I was little, I would join him in pretty much any activity he came up with. We used to go snowshoeing in the woods behind our house in the winter, and he even found me a pair of snowshoes that were exactly like his. I had my own cross-country skis when I was six, and I remember spending hours skiing on trails, enjoying the scenery and each others company. He desperately tried to teach me to skate on the lake down the road from us, but much like my dancing skills, I could only skate with my left foot for some reason. And my feet would get cold very early into it. Dad's "remedy" for cold feet was to take my skates off of me and stick my sock-clad feet into his armpits to warm them up. Sounds disgusting now, but back then it seemed like a neat enough trick.
Summertime activities didn't seem to be my "thing" either, but Dad patiently kept on trying with me. My sister was more of a "summertime" girl than I ever was. Dad's aunt and uncle had farmland in Cape Breton, and my sister absolutely loved every bit of the farm. Not so with me, although I'm sure that most of you who know me would be SO surprised at that. I've heard that my sister would get right in there to milk the cows and feed the chickens etc., when she was young. All I remember about those visits was that I wouldn't even get out of the car without holding my nose, which thoroughly embarrassed my mother (who I might add, only refrained from mimicking my actions because it would be deemed impolite). I was afraid of the chickens, couldn't stand the smell of the manure in the fields and wouldn't be caught dead picking a cucumber or carrot if my last meal depended on it. Dad accepted this side of me, and never once tried to force me to join into the farm stuff or made any type of remark regarding my distaste for everything farm related.
I can't count how many summers the poor man tried to teach me how to swim, but by the time I turned ten he admitted defeat and advised me to always have a life jacket handy. Camping was another failed activity and I know that I spent the majority of those few trips complaining and whining. I think my father must have had the patience of a saint to endure those short trips. To this day my idea of camping is in a three star hotel, but I have to give him credit for trying. I always appreciated the fact that Dad never got disappointed with my lack of enthusiasm or skill with some of what he tried to teach me. He was very much a "to each his own" person, and I'm grateful that at least I came a way with a little of his outlook, if not his love of camping.
When I entered the teen years, my father certainly had his hands full with me. I shudder now when I think of all of the really stupid things that I did, and the amount of worry and distress that I must have caused him. Dad's way of handling my rebellious years was to more or less kill me with kindness. The first time I became ill from drinking too much cheap red wine was one I'll never forget. When I finally emerged from my bedroom the next morning, Dad very sweetly (and softly) asked if there was anything at all that he could get for me. Some dry toast, black coffee, aspirin perhaps? A pillow? I would have rather been yelled at, or grounded or thrown out on the street. Anything but the kindness. That gave me more of a guilt trip than any amount of admonishment could ever have. I'm pretty sure he knew all along what he was doing.
As daughters frequently do, I moved in and out of my parents home far more times than should have been allowed. However, each time, Dad faithfully helped load and unload boxes and furniture without complaint. He never showed the exasperation that he surely felt whenever I'd announce that I'd found "the perfect place". He also never said a word or got mad at me when I'd call to say that the "perfect place/roommate or boyfriend" wasn't working out. This undoubtedly meant I'd be moving home again, and I wonder if he didn't keep a roll of packing tape in his back pocket for several years running. The only hint he ever gave that my comings and goings were a bit much was when he was walking me down the aisle. As we approached my soon to be husband, Dad leaned in and whispered "Are you sure this is what you really want? Because I'm not moving your furniture again."
When I announced that I was expecting his first grandchild, my father was absolutely over the moon. Especially since my due date was on his birthday - didn't end up that way, but he thought that was so very cool. He insisted that he be the one to buy my daughter's crib and he was so thrilled to go "baby furniture" shopping with me. I remember we had such a wonderful day together. When Mothers Day came and I was still in the fairly early stages of pregnancy, Dad showed up at my door with a dozen red roses and a handwritten "Happy Mothers Day to Be" card. When Emily was born, he was the first visitor to see her. I'm pretty sure he slept out in the hospital parking lot, just waiting to get the all clear signal.
