Dads

It's Father's Day and people go to the media to tell stories about their dads and events that made them love their fathers. Most of us have to think about Father's Day carefully because we don't have any one miraculous tale about some great moment with our dads. Our dads were just dads. They were the man at the dinner table, the man who shaved in the morning and went to work and the man who came home from work at night and read the newspapers. Dad was the man who mowed the grass, fixed things and kept the car running. Mom did all the rest. My dad will be remembered for his reading. When he was home, he read. The only way I could get his attention when I was small, was to climb up on his lap and read, or pretend to with him. He read novels, mostly folks like Caldwell and Steinbeck and often Mark Twain. I recall him laughing aloud when he read and that made me think that reading must be fun. My dad taught me the value of reading when I asked him about the photos and he explained the world situation occurring at the moment. He pointed out the headlines and soon I found myself able to read them. He read articles to me and showed  pertinent words. He taught me how to read before I went to school. My father worked with people of all nations and not once did he speak about this race or that. As far as I knew when I went to school, all the children were just kids like me even if they didn't look exactly like me. It was a huge shock to hear from some pupils in Primary School, that some children were "different" than I was. I knew there were other languages because my grandparents spoke them and our neighbours did, too. That it was odd was not odd to me as a young child. It was simply what big people did. All it meant was that I didn't know what they were speaking about and that was okay because we all played games together and everyone knew what was going on. My father taught me to be humble. He was not an aggressive man even though he was strong physically and could do heavy tasks with ease, his humour was gentle and his laughter long and hearty and never against anyone. My mother was the manager of the household and discipline was her duty. She did not yell but she did threaten. The threats were enough to prevent any wrong doings. Behaving was not a chore, it was a natural duty in our house. We did dishes and cleaned before we got the allowance. It wasn't a wealthy home nor was it particularly one that was slave to tradition. It was easy and relaxed but good manners were key. My mother saw to that. My dad would fade out of the picture if there were sibling conflicts or parental mores put down. He disappeared to the furnace room in the basement where he read in a straight-backed chair beside the behemoth of a furnace down there, a bare light bulb hanging above and the warmth of the furnace sending out waves of heat. I'd find him there. "Hi Dad, what's going on in the news today?" and then the conversations would begin. In his drawling way, Dad would give a hum or a haw but never advice. He would say, "Well now, that's a good question. Hmm, a very good question. Now then, what do you think about that?"