Week 7: Dear Old Dad

For the last week or so, I had been thinking about whether or not I would write this post, but now that the time has come, it seems like the only option.

On Saturday evening, after a difficult year, my Dad passed away. He had been fading away from us steadily over the last few weeks, so we were as prepared as you can be for something like this, as surreal as it is. He had his family at his side during his final hours, and I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we are relieved that his suffering has ended.

When things are normal, it’s easy to take your family members for granted and not really notice how interesting they are. The stories you’ve heard again and again are familiar instead of amazing, the little things they do in everyday life are nothing special because they’re just what you’ve grown to expect. It’s only when something changes that you start to take notice.

Over the past few months I have been thinking a lot about my Dad’s life, and the things that have come to mind are a mix of amazing stories and everyday events.

Before I was born, my parents built a house. A whole house! I can’t even imagine how satisfying that must have been. I have thought about it fairly often lately, as we struggle along working on our basement, which seems like it will never be finished. (We’re very close though, so I am preparing to feel satisfied – it’s even sneaking in a little already.) It wasn’t just your average home either, it was a super unique, modern split level built on a half lot in Vancouver. The house itself was only 13 feet wide and it had 6 levels.

I don’t know the details of the build, but I know my Dad did most of the work himself, with help from friends and family. The construction was impeccable and the house was a masterpiece of bubble windows, skylights and rust-coloured shag carpet. As an Interior Designer, I can now appreciate the creativity that was required to bring in so much natural light while being so limited by the code requirements of building on a 17 foot wide lot.

One of my favourite things about growing up in that house was the deafening sound of the rain hitting the skylights and angled windows; I am still trying to come up with ways to achieve a rainier sound in my current home.

. . .

One time, driving home from Granville Island with my dad, we saw a rainbow. I don’t know how old I was, I want to say about 5 or 6, but I really have no idea. Instead of taking our regular route, I navigated as we zigzagged down side streets for a number of blocks trying to get to the end of the rainbow so we could find the pot of gold. We didn’t find it, but we must have gotten pretty close because I never forgot that.

. . .

A lot of the time I spent with my Dad as a pre-teen and teenager was at work. When I was still too young to have a real job, I could always make some money on a Saturday helping my Dad make wooden toys. I sanded, glued, drilled holes and packed boxed destined for Japan. Most weeks, I only lasted until lunchtime, and then bailed out to spend the afternoon at my Grandma’s house across the street, watching TV. It was casual labour at best, but it kept me in spending money.

In high school, I often worked during the summer at the powder coating plant where my Dad was a manager. My jobs ranged from manual labour on the shop floor, which was exhausting and hot, but allowed me to listen to my Walkman all day, to filling in for an unreliable secretary in the front office – answering phones, entering work orders and freezing in the air-conditioning.

Neither were super enjoyable jobs, but I felt like I’d hit the jackpot because I was now making $10/hr. It was more than enough to keep me in CDs and concerts, and I never had to go on a job interview. I was still a little flakey about my schedule, but when I was there, I was putting in full days and I believe I was doing a pretty good job at whatever task was assigned to me.

I have recently heard other stories about my Dad finding ways for different people to make a few dollars when they needed it. He wasn’t one for giving handouts, but if you were willing to work, he always had an option for you.

. . .

While I was at art school, I was endlessly working on a variety of creative projects at home. One night I was in the office in our basement, intending to print something onto clear acetate. As the sheet fed into the printer it was immediately clear that I had made a huge mistake; nothing was coming out the other end except the smell of hot plastic. Filled with dread, I went upstairs to confess to my Dad that I had destroyed the printer.

This was the kind of accident that, had it happened at school, would have put the machine out of service for weeks and involved technicians and new parts, if not a whole new printer. My Dad, however, didn’t bat an eye. He came downstairs and looked at the printer briefly before grabbing a screwdriver and disassembling it to take the roller out, which he wiped down with some chemical from the garage to get all the melted goo off.  It was as good as new within half an hour. I don’t think he really saw problems, just looked for solutions.

. . .

At my wedding almost 12 years ago, my Dad gave a speech. I don’t remember the specifics of it, but I do recall that he brought the house down with his hilarious fatherly advice for my husband. Something about hiding his beer behind the pickles in the fridge so as not to draw attention to its presence. He was well-known for his sense of humour and dry wit; he didn’t say a lot but you could be sure that when he did, it would make you laugh.

. . .

After I moved out of the house, I mostly saw my parents once a week for dinner on Sundays. I would usually hang out with my mom and sister to chat and catch up on the week’s events before dinner, while my Dad and the husbands watched sports and drank beer. It was a routine that worked for everyone.

Over dinner my Dad would always ask questions that made it clear he was interested in whatever projects or hobbies we were currently involved in. He was always quick to offer up advice, or tools, or use of their pick-up truck, as needed.

Now that he’s gone, I won’t get any new experiences to remember, but already I have heard a number of stories that are new to me, from other people that knew him. It’s an interesting thing to see a parent as a person that actually had a life outside of your limited view of them.

While I would, of course, prefer to have my Dad for another 20 years or so, I look forward to hearing more of these stories and perspectives. And as I go on with my own life, I do not doubt that I have benefited greatly, and will continue to do so, from the things he taught me and did for me, mostly without me even realizing it at the time.