Remembering Dad
Jun. 17th, 2018 09:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dogriverThe phone rang. I answered. It was Dad. "Hi," he said brightly. "I was just wondering if you were watching curling on TV." He knew perfectly well that to me, watching curling on TV made watching paint dry seem incredibly exciting. But that didn't matter to Dad, he just wanted an excuse to call me - not that he needed one, of course.
This was one of those father-son rituals that got repeated often with my dad. Dad liked them, and he knew I did too. Looking back, I realize that much of our relationship was steeped in happy traditions: traditions which might not have seemed like much to the casual observer, but which meant the world to Dad and me.
I remember the summer when I was twelve. We had a ritual, you see. Most afternoons, Dad and I would go into town. During the car rides, we'd be listening to old-time radio shows I'd recorded the previous night off the radio, Dad reliving memories, me still discovering the theater of the mind he'd introduced me to three years earlier. We'd get into town, and go to the mall. Dad would give me a couple of bucks and I'd walk down the hall and talk a bit with my long-suffering friends at the local Radio Shack while Dad went to the coffee shop to discuss the latest pig-castration techniques or last night's hockey game with his farmer friends. Once I'd outstayed my welcome at Radio Shack, I'd go back down the hall to the Coke machine and grab a can of the sacred beverage, and stand beside the machine drinking my Coke and talking to any school friends who happened by. When Dad was finished having coffee, he'd come for me and we'd run any additional necessary errands, then go home. It was a wonderful tradition, which, thankfully, I appreciated while it was happening. It wasn't without its humorous moments, though. Once, while standing beside the Coke machine contentedly drinking my liquid wonderfulness, an elderly gentleman started asking me questions. He was trying to get me to say that I was being neglected by my dad who was off drinking coffee. Of course I knew I wasn't being neglected, and said so. I warned Dad that he might find himself being accused of neglect, and when I told him the story, he laughed. He was confident enough in himself and in me that anyone who knew us knew I was in no way being neglected. It was a wonderful summer.
My parents believed that I should try everything, and Dad did his part to make sure it happened. Taking me to organ lessons, guitar lessons, figure skating classes, choir and band practises, church youth functions - Dad took me to his share of these. When I wanted to try curling - playing is infinitely more fun than watching - Dad was right there, happily providing assistance. When I'd go around the province singing at fundraisers, if Dad could think of a joke for me to make at his expense, he'd hand it to me and encourage me to tell it.
In my darkest hours, Dad was there for me, encouraging me to weather the storms on my own if I could, but making it clear he had my back if I couldn't. During times of celebration, if I wanted someone to share my joy, I just grabbed the phone and called Dad. If I'd done something wrong and needed correcting, Dad explained the reasons to me, he didn't just correct.
Dad had a dream, when I was growing up. Someday, he told me many times, I would have a machine that could read books to me. He went to every seminar and workshop on the subject that he could, brought home all the literature that he could, and never let the dream fade in my mind. In the meantime, he read to me. And read to me. And read to me. Then he read to me some more. During hockey games on TV, we developed another little ritual: Dad watching the game, and reading Hardy Boys books to me during the commercials and intermissions. This frustrated young Bruce, who hated waiting during the plays, and sometimes when Frank and Joe were in real trouble in the middle of chapter 19, Dad would relent and read right through a playoff game.
Finally, the day came when Dad was able to realize his dream for me, and he mortgaged his tractor inorder for me to get the reading machine he'd so often told me about. Mom, every bit as wonderful as Dad, went straight to the bookstore and grabbed me a Star Trek book to read on my new machine. Everyone should have parents as wonderful as mine.
Fast forward to May of 2001. Dad is on his deathbed. We've said our goodbyes. No regrets form him, none from me. We know we have, at most, a couple of days more with each other. What do we do at this point? We find time to joke around with each other one last time. Why not?
Dad slipped into unconsciousness shortly after that. I had the privilege of singing to him many times during his final hospitalization, singing the hymns he loved so much, and which he and Mom had taught me to love so much in return. Dad was ready now for the one thing he'd wanted the most in all his life, to be with Jesus. I was holding him in my arms when he took his last breath. Though crying inconsolably, I wouldn't have had it any other way, and I am so grateful to my family for giving me the privilege.
I appear to be the only one in the family who remember what song was sung at Dad's grave when we shoveled the dirt back: "Safe in the Arms of Jesus". How appropriate.
Dad led by example. He hated the sentence "Do as I say and not as I do." Dad wasn't perfect, not by a longshot. If anyone had suggested he was, he would be the first to strenuously object. But Dad was the wisest man I have ever known so far in my life. If I grow to be a tenth as wise as he was, I will be a thousand times wiser than I am today. Thanks, Dad, for everything, including marrying my mom. I can't wait until we're together again so I can introduce you to my own bride.
This was one of those father-son rituals that got repeated often with my dad. Dad liked them, and he knew I did too. Looking back, I realize that much of our relationship was steeped in happy traditions: traditions which might not have seemed like much to the casual observer, but which meant the world to Dad and me.
I remember the summer when I was twelve. We had a ritual, you see. Most afternoons, Dad and I would go into town. During the car rides, we'd be listening to old-time radio shows I'd recorded the previous night off the radio, Dad reliving memories, me still discovering the theater of the mind he'd introduced me to three years earlier. We'd get into town, and go to the mall. Dad would give me a couple of bucks and I'd walk down the hall and talk a bit with my long-suffering friends at the local Radio Shack while Dad went to the coffee shop to discuss the latest pig-castration techniques or last night's hockey game with his farmer friends. Once I'd outstayed my welcome at Radio Shack, I'd go back down the hall to the Coke machine and grab a can of the sacred beverage, and stand beside the machine drinking my Coke and talking to any school friends who happened by. When Dad was finished having coffee, he'd come for me and we'd run any additional necessary errands, then go home. It was a wonderful tradition, which, thankfully, I appreciated while it was happening. It wasn't without its humorous moments, though. Once, while standing beside the Coke machine contentedly drinking my liquid wonderfulness, an elderly gentleman started asking me questions. He was trying to get me to say that I was being neglected by my dad who was off drinking coffee. Of course I knew I wasn't being neglected, and said so. I warned Dad that he might find himself being accused of neglect, and when I told him the story, he laughed. He was confident enough in himself and in me that anyone who knew us knew I was in no way being neglected. It was a wonderful summer.
My parents believed that I should try everything, and Dad did his part to make sure it happened. Taking me to organ lessons, guitar lessons, figure skating classes, choir and band practises, church youth functions - Dad took me to his share of these. When I wanted to try curling - playing is infinitely more fun than watching - Dad was right there, happily providing assistance. When I'd go around the province singing at fundraisers, if Dad could think of a joke for me to make at his expense, he'd hand it to me and encourage me to tell it.
In my darkest hours, Dad was there for me, encouraging me to weather the storms on my own if I could, but making it clear he had my back if I couldn't. During times of celebration, if I wanted someone to share my joy, I just grabbed the phone and called Dad. If I'd done something wrong and needed correcting, Dad explained the reasons to me, he didn't just correct.
Dad had a dream, when I was growing up. Someday, he told me many times, I would have a machine that could read books to me. He went to every seminar and workshop on the subject that he could, brought home all the literature that he could, and never let the dream fade in my mind. In the meantime, he read to me. And read to me. And read to me. Then he read to me some more. During hockey games on TV, we developed another little ritual: Dad watching the game, and reading Hardy Boys books to me during the commercials and intermissions. This frustrated young Bruce, who hated waiting during the plays, and sometimes when Frank and Joe were in real trouble in the middle of chapter 19, Dad would relent and read right through a playoff game.
Finally, the day came when Dad was able to realize his dream for me, and he mortgaged his tractor inorder for me to get the reading machine he'd so often told me about. Mom, every bit as wonderful as Dad, went straight to the bookstore and grabbed me a Star Trek book to read on my new machine. Everyone should have parents as wonderful as mine.
Fast forward to May of 2001. Dad is on his deathbed. We've said our goodbyes. No regrets form him, none from me. We know we have, at most, a couple of days more with each other. What do we do at this point? We find time to joke around with each other one last time. Why not?
Dad slipped into unconsciousness shortly after that. I had the privilege of singing to him many times during his final hospitalization, singing the hymns he loved so much, and which he and Mom had taught me to love so much in return. Dad was ready now for the one thing he'd wanted the most in all his life, to be with Jesus. I was holding him in my arms when he took his last breath. Though crying inconsolably, I wouldn't have had it any other way, and I am so grateful to my family for giving me the privilege.
I appear to be the only one in the family who remember what song was sung at Dad's grave when we shoveled the dirt back: "Safe in the Arms of Jesus". How appropriate.
Dad led by example. He hated the sentence "Do as I say and not as I do." Dad wasn't perfect, not by a longshot. If anyone had suggested he was, he would be the first to strenuously object. But Dad was the wisest man I have ever known so far in my life. If I grow to be a tenth as wise as he was, I will be a thousand times wiser than I am today. Thanks, Dad, for everything, including marrying my mom. I can't wait until we're together again so I can introduce you to my own bride.
