My dad died unexpectedly almost three years ago. He was 82, and had suffered from Parkinson’s Disease for several years. His condition was progressively getting worse, and we were facing some difficult decisions about his care. So while his death was shocking and unexpected, it was also somewhat of a relief.
I think about my dad a lot. He was a quiet man, and as he got older, he was more content to sit in a chair and observe life going on around him. He loved sports, and was always active when I was growing up, playing Oldtimers’ hockey, curling (once his team got an 8-ender!), baseball, pickup football, cross-country skiing, camping, canoeing, hiking, and enjoying manual labour. He built two houses for us over the years, a cedar-strip canoe which now resides in my shed, and beautiful furniture for his family, including a rocking horse for his first grandchild (my son) which has been well-used over the years, not only by my children, but by dozens of others who have visited my home. He also built for my children a replica of an antique Quebecois cradle which was given to my parents when I was born.
Dad grew up in a family that struggled at times with poverty, like many others on the Prairies during the Dirty Thirties. They moved a lot until they finally settled in the Lower Mainland of BC when Dad was in his teens. He didn’t finish high school, but he was the first person in his family to receive a university degree. I think that his experiences of being unsettled and unrooted gave him great sensitivity to those who were seeking to belong. He was the fourth of six children who lived to be adults, and although most of our life as a family was lived far from most of our extended family, he was close to his siblings, and there was always lots of laughter when they were together.
Even though Dad was quiet and was unable to fully participate in our activities at the end, his presence was large in our lives. He loved children, and I have a sneaking suspicion that he actually enjoyed being a grandfather more than he did a father. He had the freedom and the time to watch his grandchildren play, learn and grow. My kids were lucky – they remember him before Parkinson’s overtook him. They spent a lot of time with my parents, and I know that their memories of him are of happy times, playing hockey in the basement, and going to every playground in the town, then buying them treats on the way home; setting up a model railroad in his basement, helping them with various projects, cooking their favourite meals (breakfast for supper – Poppa’s porridge and pancakes), and building sandcastles on the beach. I can’t even imagine how proud of them he would be now if he could see all that has happened in their lives in only three years.
Dad had a deep reserve of patience. I honestly can only remember him losing his temper once, and that was after my brother and I were adults and had left home. He always had time for us. He was a minister, and usually worked from home, so there were many times when we would disturb him with questions or showing him things we had found. I often wonder how many great sermons he never preached because one of us had interrupted his train of thought and he hadn’t been able to pick it up again. He never begrudged us the interruptions, and never attempted to rush us through whatever it was we had to say.
More than anything, my dad was wise. He was a great listener, and seldom “advised.” But somehow, he always knew what questions needed to be asked, and he was able to gently guide us when we asked for advice. I know that in his role as a minister, he was compassionate, caring and non-judgmental, and I am aware that he probably made a huge difference in the lives of many of the people he served without anyone else ever knowing about it.
He had a hidden but very active sense of humour. We always knew that if we could get a chuckle out of Dad, we had found a truly funny joke. Many times, we would be sitting around the table with all four of us laughing uncontrollably at some funny pun or joke. His favourite joke had to do with toilet paper and airplane wings, but I’m sorry to say I don’t remember the whole thing.
My husband and I got engaged while we were both working at a summer camp in Manitoba. We did not have telephone access, and we decided that we would wait to tell anyone about our engagement until we were able to tell our parents all at the same time. Dad was volunteering at the camp that week, but the problem was that my mom had stayed at home. To this day, I don’t know whether Dad somehow knew that something momentous had happened and was teasing us, or whether it was a coincidence, but the very next morning, he invited us to join him in an early morning canoe trip around the shores of the lake. So there we were, the three of us, two of us bursting to share our news, and my dad. We managed to keep it in, but I imagine my dad chuckling to himself through the next couple of days, watching us sweat until we finally had the family together and broke the news.
For the past several years, I planned to plant a crabapple tree – not one of those showy pink decorative trees, but the kind that produces edible fruit, like the ones that grow in the prairies. My dad loved crabapple jelly, and my plan was to grow enough crabapples to make him at least a couple of jars. But I never followed up. This spring, we finally planted one. Every year when it blooms, around Father’s Day, I will think of my dad, and when we finally get some fruit on it, I’ll dedicate my first jar of jelly to him.
Even though my dad was not the kind of man who was larger than life and boisterous and loud, his absence leaves a hole, a figurative empty chair at the table that will always be there. I miss his quiet gentleness and wisdom, his chuckles, and his ability to revel in the small joys of life. I miss his presence, and I am so thankful for all that I learned from him.
