Dad
and I
Memories of a Journey of Love and Learning
By
Kelly Tobey
I was born in the fifties, into a
typical (if there is such a thing) lower middle class family with the
usual share of dysfunctions, love, and adventures. My dad was about 39
when I came on the scene.
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 the knees. My
little arms are wrapped around those legs, and my tiny feet are balanced
on the 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 under the covers. Suddenly, my dad is awakened by the sensation of tiny teeth nipping into his big toe. He looks down in astonishment to be met by a grinning face loudly announcing “hot dogs for breakfast!”. Recognizing my innocent playfulness, Dad's astonishment turns to goodhearted laughter.
We lived beside a small bay on the Trent Canal System in Ontario. What I took for granted then, I now see as acts of generosity.
The shoreline of Tobey's 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 I 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 where we twisted, attempting to arc our bodies back into the water in a diving position. Often we sputtered and coughed to clear a nose full of water, but we’d always swim back for more. Soon the neighborhood kids would be lined up for their turn to get launched by Mister Tobey. I think the line-ups eventually wore Dad out; or perhaps we became too big to toss in the air, because eventually he ended up building a floating raft with a diving board and anchoring it out in the bay.
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 as my dad was a quiet man.
One day I had occasion to tag along when someone needed to look for my dad at work. I remember my fascination upon entering a huge dimly lit building. My nostrils 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. I’d never been in a building even close to this one in size. Everything was unfamiliar to me - the massive machines and the enormous timbers. In the Tobey home, there was no television to give us a peek into foreign worlds such as these.
It wasn’t till some time later
that I started to understand 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, 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 a ship's carpenter. Contrary to what the title
would suggest, Dad 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 Dad had become friends with many of the lockmasters.
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 in vogue. I don’t know for 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 Dad would 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.
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. What I really liked was that it was so predictable that we were going on an unpredictable adventure. It often sounded well planned to start with. But a history of Sunday drives with dad suggested a different outcome. We would often reach the planned destination, whether it was a friend in a neighboring town, 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 home. 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 in his big calloused hands. As far as I know Dad only knew 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 a man of very few words, unlike my Mom who could talk for hours without missing a beat. Perhaps Dad became quieter because he knew his wife liked to talk, or maybe he would have been like that anyways. Whatever the reason, I found that I would really pay attention when Dad did speak. It seemed that he had really thought about what he was going to say and so when it did come out, it would be very pertinent.
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 reached 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 there too. As it was my mom’s habit to be the talker, I grew more and more distant from my dad. He was there - but in the background. After leaving home visits and phone calls would be mostly filled with my mother’s words. Yet I never noticed or question it.
Years later I started to sense what I’d missed. At first I suspected that Mom had pushed herself between us by dominating the conversations. But later I saw I had been shirking my responsibility. If I wanted more contact with my father, I needed to initiate it. When I took steps to do that, my mother didn’t try to block me in any way. That just made it clearer to me that she’d never gotten between my father and me on purpose, it just turned out that way because of our communication styles. If I wanted to connect more with my dad, to speak to him or to spend time with him alone I only had to ask.
Rocky
Mountain high
The first time I remember initiating alone time with Dad 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 and was interested. From where we were, we could see up the mountain to the climbing area. Dad was in his late 70s at the time and had already been through a heart attack, and my mom was dealing with poor health too; 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, and turn back at any point he became uncomfortable?
He was game!
I was thrilled. Rock climbing had become a huge passion for me and I wanted to share with my father what I’d accomplished. This was also a chance for just the two of us to connect for the first time in many years.
As we started up the hike through the forest, I explained why I had developed the trail in this particular way. Dad had always been the one who taught me about things. Now it was my turn to share with him some of the knowledge I had gained.
I had brought along a backpack 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 Dad where the rock routes went as he rested below.
Dad turned out to be in better shape than either of us had expected. We made it up to the bottom of the steep rock cliffs and he still wasn’t fatigued. I pointed out the different rock routes and expressed the fears we had faced in developing them. Each route had its own adventure story. As we rounded a bend we came upon a route I’d almost forgotten about. It was a comparatively short and easy beginner's climb. Excitedly, I suggested to Dad that we attempt it together. I assured him he would be wearing a harness and a rope 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. I would then safely lower him to the bottom of the cliff.
Dad said something like, “Don’t you tell Lois (my mom) about this or she’ll tan our hides” and I knew we were on. We got his harness on, I coached him through some climbing technique and off we went. What a thrill it was to share the exhilaration of my passion, climbing, with my dad.
Dad 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 struck me. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I stood proudly beside Frederick William Oliver Tobey, my father.
Addressing
the taboo
A few more years and a few more trips to the hospital for my dad have passed, and I am in my parent's home again in Peterborough. Again I seek some alone time with Dad and again he is willing. We drive someone home to a distant town and make the return trip alone together. Both of us being quiet men, 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 dying soon and to ask him if he’s thought about death. Then another voice comes in to counters, "Why spoil a beautiful time with thoughts of death? What if dad is afraid of death and tries to push away any thought of it?" And another voice pipes in, "What if everyone around him is afraid to offend him by bringing up the subject and he’s shy about bringing it up top but would really like to?"
I am confused and afraid. Does the fear come from wanting to respect my father - or just from my own resistance to broaching such 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 his dreams, including ones of travel and building things. We continue to drive and hold hands and cry and 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, 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 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.
Ø
I learned to be playful like the
giant with the big feet.
Ø
I learned to be generous and to
always try to leave a place in better shape than how I find it, like
Dad's beach at Tobey’s Bay.
Ø
I learned to deeply respect all
form, and that just because someone has declared that something is junk,
doesn’t mean it is, whether it’s a scrap of wood or a person who has
lived through hard times.
Ø
I learned that following other people’s maps
and directions isn’t always the best thing to do. I continue to take
many adventurous “Sunday drives” with my life.
Ø
I learned to enjoy music.
Ø
I learned that words can be powerful when
respectfully used, and that it’s often the quiet people that will have
the most relevant things to say.
Ø
I learned that intimate connections can be
created through willing action, and that I am accountable for how many I
do or do not have in my life.
Ø
I learned about the beauty of nature and the
enjoyment of sharing it with others.
Ø
I learned that the subjects I’m most resistant
to are often the ones that will pay off the most when I face them.
Ø
I learned that a father’s blessing can fill a
son’s soul to the brim.
Afterward
As things turned out my father died shortly after this article was written but not before he had gotten my mother to read it to him three or four times.
I spoke of these experiences through tears at my father's funeral. Many who were there to honor him, were touched and reminded of their own interactions with Fred.
I have noted that as children we may have a deep craving to be blessed and appreciated by our parents. It may not be noticed that our parents can have just as deep a craving to be blessed by us. Whether you have a parent that knows how to bless you or not, I want to bare witness to how valuable it is to set their mistakes aside long enough to see their points of value and give them your blessings. I am so glad to have shared these thoughts with my dad before he died.