Worthy of Remembrance
By Patricia Boyle

June is a tough month. I blunder through the days of happy weddings, hatching birdies and fragrant blooms leading up to Father’s Day. Feelings of regret and sadness along with happy childhood memories tumble inside me like clothes in a dryer. Gathered around the backyard barbecue, the sight of hamburgers stabs my heart. I miss my Father.

My family seldom mentions him. I realize now, 43 years after our loss, it is because his passing left behind a wound so great we don’t want to disturb it and cause it to fester. We want to spare each other the hurt caused by recalling the memories each of us hold inside. To the world he was just an ordinary man but to me he was extraordinary.

In 1945 Uncle Jerry pointed across a throng of heads to a line of men walking down a ramp. They all looked the same to me, wearing brown uniforms, the peaks of their hats hiding their faces, bulging duffel bags tossed over their shoulders. From atop my uncle’s shoulders I squinted towards one smiling soldier who was eagerly pushing towards us to see if he looked like the “Daddy” I’d only seen in photos. I was three and it was our first time to touch each other, cheek to cheek.

Returning home from overseas, he had to learn fast to be a Daddy to his two little children. Soon after when I knocked over the tabletop icebox and told him I did it, “Just for fun to make my toes laugh,” he turned away from me, his shoulders shaking. As I stood and waited for my punishment, I realize now that he was trying to gain control of his laughter. That’s what my Dad was like. His nickname was “Tiny”, but the only small thing about him was his temper. His sense of humour and his heart were as big as his 44-size waist.

Dad believed in hard work and providing for his family. No other kids in the Wartime Housing had a milk wagon for a playhouse or a canvas nose cone from an airplane for their first tent. But, no one else’s father worked the long hours mine did, either. He left for work before I awoke and came home after I was asleep. I used to try to stay awake to see him come in and kiss me goodnight, but seldom succeeded. He was the one I cried for when those recurring nightmares woke me or I flew over the handlebars of my bike and scraped my knees. One night, all night, when I was seriously ill, every time I opened my eyes, there he was to comfort me.

He did take some time off for family picnics at “The Rouge”, and summer stays at a cottage in Bobcaygeon, and once when I was at summer camp near Huntsville, the whole family showed up on Parent’s Day. I was so surprised and excited I forgot how to swim and lost the relay race for my team. He was forced to take time off when he had to drive north to my aunt and uncle’s cottage to rush me to the hospital with appendicitis, and the time my friend and I drove a car off an embankment in the middle of the night and found ourselves in a tiny country hospital.

When I was old enough to still be awake when he came home from work, I’d sit on his knee and then he’d say, “Susie, I’m hungry. How about making me a sandwich.” I’d do his bidding, even though I would rather have stayed in the comfort of his arms. The smell of gasoline and oil still remind me of those close times.

Sometimes he’d bring home food from the restaurant next to his service station, and my three younger brothers and my younger sister would get up, too, and we’d all have a treat with mom and dad. In my teens he’d flash the outside light to let me know that it was time to come in from my date. And if the light didn’t flash and I tried to sneak upstairs to my bedroom, like magic, just as I reached my door, he always said, “Good night Susie.” Once he came outside and offered my date and me hamburgers he had brought home. I was so embarrassed I refused. How that must have hurt him.

Another time I hurt him was when he stopped at a local restaurant with my mother and me. He said, “Come on. Let’s go get something to eat.” I said, “No,” and I slouched down hiding in the back seat hoping that no one I knew came along. I’d gladly do it now, Dad.

Because he was never home before 10:00 PM, Dad taught me how to drive a car in the dark on deserted roads. When I needed to travel to the next city for college, he gave me my first car. Just to be sure I wouldn’t speed he got me a ‘52 Chevy automatic, we called the “gutless wonder” because it wouldn’t go over 50 mph.

Just when he had reached his height of success - owning two service stations, a four bedroom house for his big family and a ‘58 Oldsmobile, he stood up under the hoist and scratched a mole on the back of his neck. The next year was all downhill.

On what would be his last night, I sat beside his 90 lb. frame in Princess Margaret Hospital, holding his hand and talking quietly about my plans for the future. He looked at me through drugged eyes as he tried to smile at my chatter.

The next day at 9:30 AM, the first day at my first job, I got the phone call that told me he had passed away. It was June 24th, shortly after Father’s Day.

I feel fortunate that my Dad came home from the War and that I had a Dad for 15 years. He may be gone, but in many ways he is still here. I see him all around: when my son works on his Mustang or builds a wooden shelf for his fish tank, in the dark hair and twinkling blue eyes of my daughter, in the work ethic of all my brothers, in the jokes and laughter of my older brother, in the familial devotion of all my siblings and children, in the fun-loving attitude of his sister, in the kind eyes of his brother, in the love of music and dancing in my granddaughters and in the sense of humour in my grandsons.

Margaret Laurence said, “But life and work and friendship will go on, in others, your inheritors.” My family is proof.

Another June will pass but the pain never lessens. I will give my Dad flowers for Father’s Day. His memory deserves a token of remembrance. I’ll stand by his plaque and tell him all the things I’ve shared with you...again.

I’m not ready to die, but when I do pass through those Pearly Gates, I know just what I’m going to do. First I will find my Dad and give him a big hug, and then I’ll say, “Can I make you a sandwich, Dad, or do you want to go out for a burger?”