Pops

Never got along with my father when I was a kid.  It wasn't that we weren't on the same page, we weren't even reading the same book.  I never  thought he understood me.  When I got older I realiazed he understood me all too well.  He saw me making some of the same mistakes he made when he was a kid.

We came from different worlds.  He was one of 11 kids who grew up on a farm outside of Mitchell, Ontario during the depression.  He lied about his age, joined the army a year before he was elidgable and was shipped off to North Africa.  He spent 4 years fighting in WW II but rarely talks about it.  The one story he loves to tell was the time he and his unit stumbled across a fully stocked wine cellar in Italy and decided they'd take the weekend off.

He hated war.  All war.  I dressed up as a soldier for Halloween one year.  All he said was was "what the hell do you want to go out like that for".  He was back in Canada by the time he was 21. By that age he had experienced more, growing up and in the army than I have in my lifetime. 

He wouldn't tell me this but when he got back he spent 2 years making a living shooting pool and playing poker.  My brother and I didn't find out how adept he was at  those 2 activities until we were in our teens.  We thought we were hot.  He was hotter.  He cleaned us out at the kitchen table and the pool table.  To us, dad's weren't supposed to know how to do things like that.  Our youth may be misbegotten but his wasn't supposed to be. 

He spent his adult life working shift work in a factory.  When I was still a baby he crippled his arm in a machine at a paper mill.  He had the hand set in a hook fashion so he'd be able to steer a car. He never complained about it.  Never felt sorry for himself.  All he ever said about it was..."I spent 4 years dodging bullets in the war and came home without a scratch.  2 years at the paper mill and this damn thing has to happen."

I guess we're all a product of our times.  He had enough money put away to pay off his mortage.  The bank manager tried to explain to him that the interest rate on the mortage was 3%. He could take the money, invest it and actually make more on the interest he would earn.  Nope.  He wanted to be debt free. He remembered too many people losing their homes during the depression. It would never happen to him. He wont use his debit card. He hates using his credit card.  He'll go to back and withdraw the money rather than let the bank ding him for interest or service charges. 

When he retired he and my mom bought an RV and vanished.  They'd go for 3 or 4 months at a time travelling around North America.  From Louisiana to Alaska.  He was never happier. 

He will rarely answer the phone.  When he does the conversation goes like this:  Me:  "Pop, it's Rick".  Him:  "Yea?"  Me:  "How you doing?"  Him:  "Okay, here's your mom".  That's the longest phone conversation I've ever had with him. 

Over the past couple of years my dad has had some health problems.  It truly bothers me to see this man who would never ask anyone for help become as fragile as he is.  He didn't lose his stubborness but now he'll ask for help.  I know it bothers him.  It bothers me too,

He was never rich, never famous.  Never made a big deal about what how my brother and I turned out.  He never talked much about my job in radio but my mother told he he would be up at 5:30 every morning at the kitchen table with the radio on listening. 

When I was 20 I swore I would never become the person my father was.  Now I wish I could  be half the person he is.  Quite simply, he is a good man and I love him for that.  Happy Father's Day Pops.