My Dad and I didn't exactly get along when I was younger. Well, let me back up, he was a lot of fun when I was really little. I remember when he used to come home after work and sit in his swivel chair. He used to smoke back then and
Khara and I would have to duck underneath the cloud of
cigarette smoke streaming out towards the television from where he was sitting. We used to fight over who would get to snuggle into the chair with him once we became big enough that only one of us could fit into it with him. He would trap us between his knees and tickle us until we yelled "TIMBER COOTIES!" We loved those days.
At some point, he lost interest, or at least it seemed he did. He didn't speak to us much, unless it was to complain about the music we listened to or the shows we watched. For a long time, his only interaction with us was when he voiced his disapproval of our entire existences. At one point during my teenage years, he just stopped talking to me entirely. What killed me the most was that he would talk to everyone around me, even my friends. We lived our lives with the general belief that Dad didn't care for us. We knew for sure he didn't like us much.
Mom kept telling us that his way of showing us he loved us, was by the way he worked so hard. Trudging through mud, rain, and snow. Sweating through summer heat and mosquitoes. Outdoors, slinging a chainsaw year round in all kinds of miserable conditions. Never taking a sick day, never stayed home for a personal day.
Some days he came home from work and we could see the intensity in his walk and the scowl on his face from all the way down the driveway. We knew to keep
quiet while he came into the house to put away his lunch pail, until he left to head out to his shop for the rest of the afternoon. Once in a while we would hear the loud clang of metal being dropped or maybe even thrown to the ground, but we left him alone out there. We never felt very welcome out in his shop and we were happy to have that remain his territory.
It wasn't until my late twenties that my Dad started coming back around. I remember Mom telling me how disappointed he was that all his grown children were moving away. I was surprised he felt that way. We had all been living far from home for over ten years. At the time, I was resentful of his missing us. He had our whole adolescent lives to have taken an interest in us and he was wanting us around
now? I remember thinking it was a little too late for him to start playing the role of father... and that he would have to earn that designation.
It was the wine tasting that really starting bringing us together. It was the first activity that my dad wanted to share with us. Our whole lives every vacation, get together, or family outing never included Dad unless it was a major holiday and the even took place at his house. For some reason though, not only did he want to come along with us when we made plans to go wine tasting with Mom, he requested to make plans. It was through those experiences that I first got to see my Dad for who he was.
He had quit logging and started a road building company with a friend and his disposition had changed almost entirely. For the first time, my dad seemed happy. He joked and laughed with us. He was affectionate to me and to my husband; giving me hugs and telling me he loved me. He had running jokes with Bruce and affectionately called him "That Damned Horn Blower". He loved my dog and fed him people-food regularly, despite my protests. He even dog-sat for me once when I called him up out of the blue and asked if I could drop Artie off for the night.
It was around that time that I asked my dad to teach me how to weld the beautiful metal sculptures he made. I could see by the look on his face how much it meant to him and he remarked, "you're the first one that's ever asked me to teach 'em anything." Before I knew it, he had me out in his shop with him bright and early the next day and was teaching me how to trace the patterns he had made, cut the metal, shape it, and weld it all together.
He sat on a stool next to me while I worked. He would show me once how he did something and then let me have at it, all the while watching me with the utmost patience. He would give me pointers here and there, like how to avoid making 'fish hooks' in the metal and what nasty things they could be once embedded into your fingers. He showed me his fingers and told stories of the various ways he accrued scars, cuts, and smashed fingers while working on his sculptures. Gentle warnings to protect me from making the same mistakes.
He gave me advice on other little things like how to care for my wedding ring, to
accommodate some of the vibrations caused while working the metal. Most importantly, he discussed life with me. We talked about how great my husband is and how hard he works for our family. Dad told me not to let anyone pressure us into having kids and assured me that was our decision alone.
The last few years with my Dad were the best. I am thankful for the time I got to spend with him. I always say I believe everything happens for a reason and I have to say that our paths were totally aligned up until he passed away. In the year and a half since I moved back from South Carolina, I had an unexplainable urge to connect with him and I took a job that allowed me the flexibility to travel down to see my parents often. His job wasn't getting contracts much for the past year and so he was lead to an
inadvertently, only slightly early, retirement that he had been longing for. This allowed us the time to find each other.
I miss him. It's been just over a month since he passed and I see him everywhere.
Some days are up and some are down. I've got a long way to go. I'll always wonder if this recent bonding time we had makes it harder for me to deal with his death or if things would have been easier for me, would I have kept myself distanced from him. I'll never know, but what I do know is that I love my Dad more than ever because of the special time we got to spend together... and I wouldn't trade it for the world.
