At seventeen, I was pretty busy majoring in apathy. As a result, I was barely making it through grade twelve. But I was sure of one thing…I was moving out.
Along with two other high school girlfriends, we found the top floor of a house we could rent. We had no furniture and lousy weekend jobs. But the rent was cheap, and, split three ways, it could work.
After we found the place, I came home, started throwing stuff in bags and told my mother I was moving out. She stood in the doorway of my room, crying, trying to convince me to stay. Desperate, she called Dad at work.
“She’s moving out! What should I do?” Mom stood by the phone desk, twisting the cord in her hand, waiting for her husband to speak.
He said three words, “Help her pack.”
Every time I tell that story, I smile.
Many moves and quite a few roommates later, I was renting a place on my own. I was nineteen. Dad came over to give me a book, “How to Be a Financially Assertive Woman.”
I have a picture from when I’m two-years old. I’m hanging from a Tarzan rope, my knees bent in an effort to hold my body. Dad stands off to the right, at the ready, watching his baby girl dangle above his head.
When I was ten, I helped my Dad as we built a big flat-bottomed boat, a wonderful vessel that would enable me to explore the swamp in our back bush. Dad fired up the electric skill saw. My mother, upset, stood at the door of the garage, sure I would lose a finger or an arm. Dad persisted, showing me how to let those spinning teeth sink into the plywood. I hung on as it howled and ripped through the wood, releasing the heavenly smell of sawdust.
My father taught me how to straighten nails and frame a wall. I sat beside him on more than one roof while he taught me how to space and pound on row after row of cedar shakes. We strung up barb wire for fences and I learned how to dig a good post hole.
I was in grade three when my older sister was getting picked on by another grade seven girl in her class. Dad told her to turn the other cheek. When the bullying didn’t let up, he taught her how to fight. He decreed the day she was ready to fight. He sat in his car on his lunch hour and waited while she beat the crap out of the much bigger girl. He strode down the school driveway when she got hauled off the principal’s office and told the principal the story. The two young enemies became best friends.
“Respect,” he told my sister, “She needed to learn to respect you.”
Not all my dad stories are happy stories. If man was made in God’s image, than God was often a retribution-seeking smite-thee-down kind of guy. Our father at 33152 Cherry Street could be a fierce and angry man. ‘Wait ’til your father gets home’ were words that commanded attention.
But.
He was also a man who had an endless repitoire of Reader’s Digest jokes. He owned a wooden gun that shot rubber bands at his employees. He taught each of his girls how to build tree forts, whack at a baseball, drive a pick up and build a good fire.
Every Valentine’s Day he brought home four boxes of heart-shaped chocolates. Three small ones for his girls and a big box for our mother.
The pale-blue ledger that was tucked under the phone cupboard was filled with women’s names. Single mothers, wives of prisoners, women who needed a hand. Each woman a recipient of a second-hand car, to be repaid when and if possible. No interest. No questions.
My dad taught me not to fear the world. That if you’re going to make a move…than do it. He taught me that girls could do whatever they wanted. To jump in with both feet. To play fair. To expect respect. To be kind. To try hard. To do what scares you.
He demonstrated too, that sometimes you might mess up and get angry.
But.
If you’re really serious about punching someone…make it count.
Colleen, what a fantastic Dad he was! I think teaching your children to take risks and eliminating fears must be the most valued quality you can give them.
Personally my father was in the Army, so he was away most of the time and consequently my sister and I were over protected by my Mom against the world. I don’t think I had much fears as I loved sports and the outdoors but “becoming financially independent” hmm… well no. I think I am pretty well-adjusted though.
Thank your for sharing this with us. I can see why you had no fears going down a zip wire in South Africa!
Catherine, I think you’re right about the connection to the zip wire in South Africa, though I can confirm that my knees were trembling and my heart pounding pretty hard and I seriously think I partially passed-out when I did the gorge jump!
I truly believe the connection to the outdoors would have been the saving grace for us both.
Dad wasn’t all straight ahead wonderful…there was some pretty serious religious rigidness that I rebelled against – hard…resulting in not-always-great consequences.
I believe we each face difficult obstacles/situations, and it is how we react to them that results in our character. I am most thankful for how my father demonstrated a get-in-there and go-for-it mentality. (Although this doesn’t always serve me well 🙂
And yes, I agree, you seem pretty well-adjusted to me!
I love the contrasts in your father. I know about the Mennonite side, the harshness and biblical rigidity, but I didn’t know that he was such a feminist though I’m sure he’d shoot me with a rubber band if he heard me say that. These stories are so wonderful.
I was a scrapper as a kid and it was amazing how everything balanced out. I punched a boy following me around like a puppy in grade 2… and in grade 10 he asked me to give me a hand helping him and the boy two doors down to fix a lawnmower. He pointed to a part and said, ‘hold that’, pulled a cord, and I got how many volts of retribution via the sparkplug between my fingertips. I’ve always admired him since for his long game and quiet elegance of solutions.
I also remember a time that the neighbour boys across the street – 2 and 3 years older than me – used to beat me up in full view of their front window in the culdesac we shared. George hauled off and bare-knuckled my mouth, which was full of braces, and my face swelled up like a blowfish. I returned the favour via a righteous black eye and figured we were square.
Then his mother (whom I still keep in touch with today) called me over for a tongue lashing as I stood below her on the porch dripping blood from my chin; I’ll never forget looking up as she leaned out the skinny side window of their livingroom, gently chastising me for nearly ‘putting out George’s eye’ while the sun shone like an accusatory mirror from the sky behind her head.
I was not a victor, or a bully, and was more likely to lose than win, but I enjoyed those scrappy days. Looking back on them brings a certain kind of satisfaction that I wasn’t a victim, or a crybaby, or cringing away from everything all the time. I wouldn’t change any of it.
I’m glad your dad raised you the way he did – you’re an amazing person to know.
HI Cousin — Love your stories — Memories are so precious and we have them forever.
Thanks Edna, you’re right about memories. Our stories inform and make our lives. Perhaps that is what’s so frightening about Alzheimer’s and dementia, the loss of our sense of who we are when our stories disappear…
Great memories of a remarkable man, Colleen. When I was in Grade 3 my father taught me how to throw a punch and, after being bullied by an older boy ( and his 3 burly brothers) for several weeks, I finally decided to give my boxing lessons a try. So the next time the boy threatened me I did as my Dad had showed me and delivered a sound punch to his nose. I was so surprised to see a bloodied nose, I ran straight in our house and locked the door. But the boy gave me a wide berth after that. Later, all I had to do was tell kids I had taken boxing lessons and they’d leave me alone. You’ve got to the love the 1960s!
Love that story Michele. No wonder I’ve always treated you with respect! I must have instinctively known you could’ve wiped up the floor with me 🙂 The last guy I beat up was when I was in grade eight. I did a flying tackle on him as he was in the stairwell bus on his way home. He too, quit harrassing me. He certainly never called me flatsy after that. It was definitely a different time, eh?
Colleen those are such wonderful memories and I’m sure you treasure them more as time goes by.
You’re so right Aunt Mabel, I love thinking about these stories and all the time Dad spent with us.
Awwww catching up on your blog after a long while away from reading anything online at all. I’ve missed it, and you. What a beautiful story.
Thanks Lynnette. I’ve been thinking about my dad a lot these days. Going to visit him again tomorrow. Never know what I’ll find when I get there.