My dad was a good man. Quiet, reserved, sometimes just… there. But he always took the time to teach me things in ways that stuck.
When I was six, he bought me a small used two-wheeled bicycle. No training wheels. Out on the back lawn, he held the seat while I wobbled around, and then, with a push, I was off. That was the first lesson: how to ride a bike.
He taught me to fish, showing me the rod, reel, hooks, and bait. I could cast and even bait the hook, but I drew the line at touching the fish. Go figure.
One memory that might raise eyebrows today: he put a target on a concrete wall in the basement and let my two older brothers and I practice with a rifle. He believed boys and girls could do the same things, and I appreciated that.
By the time I was ten, he called me out to the backyard. “It’s time you learned how to cut the lawn,” he said. Chores weren’t gendered in his world. He showed me the electric mower, how to handle the cord safely, and even the checkered pattern to make the lawn look neat. When I married, we had an electric mower. We didn’t have it long before my husband purchased a gas mower as I accidentally ran over the electric cord. Once. But that was enough for my electrician husband to deem it unsafe for me.
On long trips, he quizzed me on spelling. I didn’t even realize I was learning, but I think those little exercises are part of why I’m a good speller today.
When I was fifteen, it was time to learn to drive. Dad would take me out on the back roads in the country and teach me everything: starting, stopping, signalling, turning, shoulder checking, mirror checking, braking, everything I would need to know and what I should and shouldn’t do. Those lessons gave me confidence and a sense of independence, and I still remember them clearly today.
At eighteen, he took me to the back alley to teach me how to change a car tire. “In case you’re alone and no one’s around to help,” he said. Practical lessons like these have stayed with me.
He also passed on his love of reading, sharing books he thought I could handle. Some were a little racy for my age, and I suspect my mother would have objected. Maybe it was his way of teaching life lessons without ever having to say them.
Sometimes, when my mother was in one of her moods and ignoring him, I’d sit with Dad and watch TV. Just to keep him company. Back then, we had only two channels. Saturday nights were hockey, followed by the news, then a late-night movie. I didn’t love hockey. Heck, I didn’t even like hockey, but I watched anyway, asking the odd question and pretending to be interested. War movies, westerns seemed to be the Saturday night fare. I learned to love them because he loved them. I still enjoy them today, and whenever I do, I think fondly of those nights.
It’s amazing how small moments like these shape us. My dad was quiet, but his lessons were lasting. I wouldn’t trade a single memory. Even now, I still can’t stand hockey games, but I wouldn’t change the times I spent with him for anything.
And, as Tigger would say “TTFN, Ta, Ta, for now!”