Dad and I

 

By Kelly Tobey

I’m going to let my mind reach back and pull up some memories of my father. Some of them are bound to be somewhat distorted given the amount of time that has passed and the limitations of my own perceptions. Yet to me they are all valid in the sense of how they have helped form the ways I look at the world.

I was born in the 50’s, into a typical (if there is such a thing) lower middle class family. We had our share of dysfunctions, of love, and of adventures. My dad was about 39 when I came on the scene.

Walking with the giant

My first conscious memory of dad is a sweet one that can still bring tears to my eyes. All I can see is big feet and legs up to knee height. My little arms are wrapped around those legs and my tiny feet are balanced on those monstrous ones below. I hold on tight as those feet take giant steps and my short legs try to stretch out with them. The room is filled with my high-pitched giggles and father’s deep laughter. Love is in the air.

Breakfast of champions
It’s early morning and mischief is on my mind. I enter my parent’s bedroom, as they lay fast asleep.

I see one of those giant feet sticking out from beneath the covers. My dad is awakened by the sensation of tiny teeth nipping into his big toe. He looks down the bed in astonishment to be met by a grinning face loudly announcing “hot dogs for breakfast”. The innocent playfulness is recognized and his astonishment turns to good heartedness rather than irritation.

Generosity

We lived beside a small bay on the Trent Canal System. What I took for granted then, I now see as acts of generosity. The shoreline of the bay was originally filled with bulrushes and swamp. Bit by bit my father transformed a section of the bay. Whenever he could set aside some extra money he would bring in another dump truck full of sand until eventually he created a beach for the neighboring families and us to enjoy. He was careful to also leave a swampy section available so the turtles, frogs and fish could thrive. As a young boy the swamp was just as inviting as the beach. It wasn’t unusual for my mother to come downstairs in our home and find the laundry tubs full of tadpoles, frogs, minnows, and turtles.

 

Water play

Learning to dive was great fun. Dad would wade out in the water to about his chest level. My younger brother and myself would swim out to him. Dad would cup his big hands together under the water, below his waist. We would take turns putting a foot in his hands and our hands on his head for balance. Then with a big upward thrust we would be rocketed into the air as we tried our best to prepare to fall back into the water in a diving position. In spite of often needing to sputter and cough to clear a nose full of water, we’d swim back for more. Soon the neighborhood kids would be lined up for their turn to get launched out of the water by mister Tobey. I think the line-ups of children eventually wore out dad, or perhaps we became too big to toss in the air, because eventually he ended up building and anchoring out in the bay, a floating raft with a diving board on it.

 

Mystery revealed

I was used to my dad being gone all day. I was told he was gone to work but I didn’t really know what that entailed. My dad was a quiet man so I didn’t hear about what might have happened with him through the day.

One day I had occasion to tag along when someone needed to go in search of my dad at work. I remember my fascination upon entering a huge dimly lit building. My nostrils where filled with the wonderful smell of freshly cut wood. My eyes adjusted to the lighting as I listened to the noise of the wood saws in action. I’d never been in a building even close to this ones size. Everything in it was unfamiliar to me - the massive machines and the enormous timbers. We had no television in our home to give a peek into foreign worlds such as these. If something hadn’t been read about or seen in a book, then only hands on experience would bring it to awareness.

It wasn’t till some time later that I started to build an understanding of what my father did in that building. The family had piled into one of the boats my dad had built to go for an excursion up the canal. The canal had a series of locks on it that would allow boats to be lifted or lowered to the corresponding level of water in the canal. (The locks could be thought of as replacing waterfalls on a regular river.) I noticed that when we’d come to the locks, that the lockmasters would wave and have some friendly words to share with my dad. My curiosity was finally served when I learned that my dad was designated as a ships carpenter. Contrary to what the title would suggest he wasn’t building ships at work, he was building and repairing the giant wooden gates that held in the water at the canal locks, and so, had become friends with many of the lockmasters.

Love of wood

Through my dad’s example, I learned to love to work with wood. His woodworking didn’t stop at his job. He enjoyed building things whenever he got a chance. He built several different styles of boats that he would rent out to others when our family wasn’t using them. As I grew, I learned more and more from him until I was finally able to build a complete speed boat on my own. As a young lad I felt quite proud of the accomplishment.

Dad was an avid recycler long before it was vogue. I don’t know for sure if it was because he cared so much for wood, if he was being extra frugal with his resources, or if it was a bit of both, but he’d use every scrap of wood he could, rather than see it burned. Wood that others had destined for the bonfire or the dump he gathered and used to build a house. I remember spending hours pulling nails out of scrap wood for him and then pounding the nails straight so they could be used again.

Nap time

It was a family ritual to dress up and go to church on Sundays. As a young boy, full of energy to burn, yet stuck in a church pew, the sermons seemed never ending. One of my forms of entertainment was to watch as my dad’s eyes would slowly close. This meant soon his head would be doing the dance of the sandman. I’d watch in fascination as his head would slowly lean forward until gravity would catch and accelerate it. Would the sudden bob at the bottom be enough to wake him this time or not? How I wished for the ability to nap along with him until church was done.

 

Sunday drives

I have fond memories of our family’s Sunday drives, and not just because it meant we were finally out of church, although that was probably a factor. What I really liked was that it was predictable that we were going on an unpredictable adventure. It often sounded well planed to start with. There would be talk of going to such and such a destination, but a history of Sunday drives with dad suggested a different reality. We would often actually reach the destination, whether it was a friend in a neighboring town, or a scenic place to hike, or a favorite swimming place. It was on the ride back that the unknown adventure would begin. Dad had a fondness for attempting to find a shortcut back to our house. Using maps or stopping to ask directions was thankfully not on the menu. I say thankfully because dad’s shortcuts regularly led us into countryside we’d never seen before. We found fascinating old abandoned houses to explore, wild apple trees to pick from, lakes and ponds to swim in, trails to hike, and if we were real lucky we’d find a little country community with a general store that sold ice cream. All the while dad would claim with a straight face that we were actually on a legitimate shortcut. I think one of my mom’s favorite things to say to dad on those occasions, as a friendly tease, was, “We don’t have a clue where we are Freddy, but we’re sure making good time!”

 

Music anyone?

Every once in a while dad would pull out his mandolin. It presented such a contrast – this small, somewhat delicate instrument held in his big calloused hands. As far as I know he only knew some parts of two songs, but I still enjoyed the sounds he’d make with his quick mandolin style strumming, even after realizing I was never going to hear a song from beginning to end.

 

A man of few words

I remember dad as being a man of very few words. On the other hand my mom could talk for hours with out missing a beat. Perhaps he became quieter because he knew his wife liked to talk, or perhaps he would have been like that anyways. Whatever the reason for his quietness, I found that I would really pay attention when he did speak. It seemed that he had thought about what he was going to say beforehand and so when it did come out, it would be very relevant.

 

Finding time alone

It wasn’t till many years after leaving “the nest” that I recognized how valuable my dad was and is to me. One of the things I noticed as I looked back was that by the time I was in my early teens I was more into my own activities and less into family ones. About the only time I’d spend with family would be around the house, so almost any time I was around my dad, my mom was also there. As it was my mom’s habit to be the talker, I became more and more distant from my dad. He was there, but in the background. After leaving my childhood home any visits or phone calls would be mostly filled with my mother’s words as well. I didn’t notice or question it at the time.

Years later I started to sense the value I’d missed because of the distancing from my dad. Before I looked at it more accountably, I first suspected that mom had pushed herself between us by dominating the talking. Later I saw that I was shirking my own responsibility by acting a victim to my mom’s way of socializing. If I wanted to establish some more contact with my father, I needed to initiate it. When I took the steps to do that, my mother didn’t try to block it in any way. That just made it clearer to me that she’d never gotten between my father and I on purpose, it just turned out that way because of our communication styles. If I want to connect more with my dad I could ask to speak to him alone on the phone or ask for time alone with him.

 

Rocky Mountain high

The first time I remember initiating some alone time was when my parents came out west from Ontario and stopped in to visit me. We were out in the Rocky Mountains. They had their mobile home parked near a rock climbing area I had helped develop with some friends and then written a climbing guidebook about. Dad had read the book sometime before and was interested. We could see up the mountain to the climbing area. My dad was in his late 70’s at the time and had already been through a heart attack and my mom was dealing with poor health, so I thought a look from the bottom would be it.

 

A thought came; what if dad and I where to slowly walk up the mountain trail towards the cliffs, turning back at any point he became uncomfortable. He was game! I was very pleased. Rock climbing had become a huge passion for me and I wanted to share with my father what I’d accomplished in this area. This was a chance for us to connect on our own, which we hadn’t done for many years. We started up the hike through the forest as I explained why I had developed the trail in this particular way. He’d always been the one that taught me about things. Now I was getting a chance to share with him something I could teach him about. I had brought along a pack with snacks, a first aid kit, and some climbing gear. I thought that if by chance we did get all the way to the rock wall, I could climb some to show him where the rock routes went as he rested below.

 

He turned out to be in better shape than we had both suspected. We did make it up to the bottom of the steep rock cliffs and he wasn’t fatigued. I pointed out different rock routes and told him about the fears faced in developing them. Each route had it’s own personal adventure story to go with it. As we walked along the cliff base we rounded a bend and came up to a rock route I’d almost forgotten about. It was a comparatively short, comparatively easy beginners route. Excited about the possibility, I suggested to dad that we attempt this climb together. I assured him that he’d have a harness and rope on to catch his fall if he slipped or lost his strength, and if at any time he felt he couldn’t continue, I could take up any slack in the rope so he could put his weight on it and I would then lower him to the bottom of the cliff.

 

Upon hearing a comment from him that was something like, “Don’t you tell Lois (my mom) about this or she’ll tan our hides” I knew we were on. What a thrill to be able to share my passion with my dad who had never gotten to experience the exhilaration of climbing before. We got his harness on, I coached him through some climbing technique and off we went. He did extremely well and soon we reached the top of the climb. From there we got to stand side by side and face out on to an incredible view of the blue-green lake in the valley far below and the majesty of the mountains rising up from the other side of the valley. It was then in the quiet beauty and stillness of the moment that the enormity of this experience came into full consciousness. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I stood beside Frederick William Oliver Tobey, my father.

 

Addressing the taboo

After a few more years and a few more trips to the hospital for my dad, I show up in Peterborough at my parent’s house. Again I choose for some alone time with dad and again he is willing. We drive someone home to a distant town and get to make the return trip alone together. Both of us being typically quiet, more listeners than talkers, we drive many miles in silence. Then this inner voice starts nudging me. It’s telling me to talk to dad about the possibility of his dieing soon and to ask him if he’s thought about death. Another voice comes in to counter and says - why spoil a beautiful time with thoughts of death?  What if dad is afraid of death and tries to push away any thoughts about it? Then another voice saying, what if everyone around him is afraid to offend him by bringing up death and he’s shy about bringing up the subject but he would really like to be able to talk about it? A fear of speaking about death has now arisen in me. Does the fear come from wanting to respect my father or just from my own resistance to a difficult subject? I stay in my silence hoping for clarity, it comes. I take one hand off the steering wheel and take dad’s hand in it. I begin to see my resistance was to my own feelings about losing him. Through tears I tell him how much I’ll miss him when he is no longer in body. I tell him that even though I know he’ll always be with me in spirit and even though I’m rarely around to hug him or hold his hand like this anyways, I still sadden at the thought of one day never being able to touch him again. I ask if he has thought about death. He says he has. I ask him if he carries any dreams about things he would have liked to accomplish but won’t be able to now. He shares some of those dreams with me. We continue to drive and hold hands and cry and quietly talk.

 

When my visit is about complete and I prepare to leave, my father reaches out and lovingly kisses me on the lips. I am deeply touched by this show of affection. Although he may have done so when I was a small child, I don’t remember ever being kissed by my father before.

 

Well that visit was some years ago now and dad must be nearing 87 now. He’s lost a lot of his hearing and vision and short term memory but he and my mother are still hanging out with each other in the house that dad built partially from his scraps of wood and recycled nails. They still go to church when they are well enough and someone is around to drive them. And I’ll bet you can still watch my dad doing the sandman nod through the Sunday service.

 

Integrating the gifts

There are many things I’ve learned from my journey with my father. Here are a few of them.

 

 

Thank you dad.

 

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