I guess a little part of me changed, or grew, when I witnessed a picture of my father as a ten-year-old. Having never really seen a childhood image of my father, I couldn't help but look at this old Community Press article with a sense of awe. For there in the front row, arms crossed and smiling impishly, was the little boy who would grow whiskers and someday become my father. He probably didn't know this at the time, and there was likely nary a twinkle to be found in his eye that would have represented either my brother or me. Because for all of my father's gruffness, there he was at his most innocent; he was just a little boy. My brother resembled him so much at that age, and it was like looking at the same person within a different decade.
Because he was, and is, my father… a humorous and mellow man but a man whose past -- like so many of us -- had its share of shadows. But I've long since forgotten those shadows because he is my unconditional father, and he was a little boy. So much of me is my father; from personality to appearance. It was he who told me, as a child, how much I meant to him and today, many years later, I still know this. Many a lesson came from him, from mediocre to life-altering. How good pepper tastes on Kraft Dinner (he hated the thought of ketchup on it) to the importance of doing well in school; the best time to wave to the man in the caboose of the coal trains (and score a wave in return), to the value of forgiveness and simplicity. How to be humble; to win at Top Gear II; to never give in; to be careful of the pits while eating cherries and ultimately, the golden fact that the woodstove downstairs would not eat me.
He lived hard, worked hard and laughed just as much. The coal mines left his shoulders broken, lungs dark and legs tired but I see him as every bit the strong man I knew him as. Trying times and a restless generation would see to my moving very far away from my father... a country away. My mind will forever hold the image of how hurt he was nearly seven years ago to this day, as I write this vignette; of all the people I had to leave behind in Cape Breton, he was by far the most shaken. But my father was still strong and while the wound has healed, it is still hard to leave him as every visit I make comes to its conclusion. But he stays composed for me, gives me a big whiskerburn hug and says he'll see me next time. I know that my father is still hurt, but years have seen to a better life compared to the one I had, and I know that comforts him. However, daddies never like seeing their little girls going away.
My father now passes his teachings, in many abstractly simple -- yet effective -- forms, onto my younger half-brother and step-sister that he has been blessed with, respectively, since 1997 and 1998. It's like watching time play out, over and over again, when I watch him with the two of them. Two smart, personable and unique children and a wife that completes him. There are no halves or steps at this point; only family.
When the low thoughts hit me, or faltering rears its ugly head, I merely think about what good my father has done for me. How his discipline kept me on the straight and narrow, how the tough times could be now used as a lesson and milestone rather than a taint; how to never turn one's back on family and never become so complex that you could never hope to recognize yourself afterwards. How it's good to be simple... to laugh at silly things, and take just that moment longer to smell the roses, pick them, and keep them in a vase. To be a good person and to know that everyone was a child once and was thus, innocent. I love my father, and I have long since appreciated the resulting whiskerburn from a great big hug that much more.
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Simplicity in life? Check. Simplicity with technology..? We're still figuring it out. :)