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?”
