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With Glowing Hearts and Fireworks
Yep, it’s Father’s Day as I write this week’s column. As fathers go, I had a pretty good one. He worked hard. He loved his kids. He loved Mom. He loved to swim. He loved a camping trip. He loved skating and playing hockey. He loved drawing and planning on paper. He had a big sense of humour and could tell a joke like nobody’s business. It was a treat to watch him laugh. When you have seven kids, a sense of humour goes a long way. The best part was he was a teenager at heart, most of his adult life. He loved to listen to “good music” and, to our surprise, his idea of good music included the Eagles. We found his Eagles CD after he had passed away and were sorting through his belongings. Who knew? We thought he only listened to Big Band music, Peggy Lee and Ella Fitzgerald. We all smiled when we learned the truth. I guess if we had known about the Eagles we would have inundated him with albums, and he wasn’t the kind of guy who had a lot of stuff. My dad also had the moves. Yep, LOML and I often reminisce about how my parents could slow dance to the oldies. What a treat it was to watch them glide across the dance floor. I believe he fell in love with my mom when he was a teenager and part of him just never grew up. I got the expression, “If I don’t look in the mirror, I still just a young man.” Dads, eh! Like it or not, we all have or had them.
I grew up in a semi-rural neighbourhood in the Toronto area. Ours was a VLA house, built by my dad and his brothers, on what had been an orchard. Short of digging the basement by hand (although he did attempt to do just that) the entire house was his doing. He knew every inch of that house, every nail, every tile, every door knob and shingle. We moved into the house before the second floor and basement were accessible. I remember him telling me how complicated stairways were. I suppose he learned “stairs” “on the job”. Sunset Trail was always under construction. It was always a worksite. When I left home at the age of nine- teen, Dad was planning to re-do the basement, complete with the second bathroom Mom had always wanted. With nine people living in the house, a second bathroom would have been a dream once all of “the girls” hit the teen years, started dating and vied for space in front of the mirror. Sometimes Dad would laugh at families who whined about only having two bathrooms. Often he drew up plans for homes with “too many bathrooms”, as far as he was concerned. When Dad and Mom moved from Sunset back to their old neighbourhood, the second bathroom hadn’t materialized.
My dad was the guy who sat in the bleachers while my sisters and I swam endless laps at the John Innes Pool on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Dad was the guy with the Thermos of coffee standing at the boards at Roding Park while “the boys” had their early morning hockey practices. Dad was the guy who occasionally finished work early and met us at the school to give us a lift home instead of riding the school bus. Dad was the guy who let my younger brother and I straighten the bent nails and gave us the offcuts to use in our backyard projects. He taught us how to respect the tools he owned. He was always gracious if we bought him a new addition to his work- bench, but usually held onto the tools he already owned, “Just in case.” But I best remember my dad on Firecracker Days. Victoria Day and July 1st— when Dad’s ability to have fun shone best. As a family, we usually celebrated at the local public schoolyard when the whole community showed up for fireworks, hot dogs, soft drinks and neighbourliness. Blankets were spread out on the hill surrounding the play- ground and we lay back, waiting to ooh and ahh. It was a remarkable and magical time. And, one year my father and my uncles decided it was high-time to put on a fireworks display in our own backyard. Fireworks were purchased. Aunties, uncles and cousins arrived for the weinie-roast, the KoolAid, the brownies and the oohing and aahing. My cousin, the Eagle Scout, got the bonfire roaring and the fun started. A huge box of fireworks came out of the Chevy trunk and set down beside the septic tank. Cousins ran around playing pop-tag, Mom and the aunties put the pot on the fire to boil the corn and hot dogs, Dad and the uncles quaffed beers, smoked cigarettes, told Dad jokes and poked at the fire. All of the kids asking, “Is it dark enough yet?” And then?And then, someone accidentally flicked a cigarette butt into the box of fireworks! It never got “dark enough” that year, but it sure was fun hearing all of the “expletives”, the laughing and shrieking. Best Fire- cracker Day EVER.
As the next “Firecracker Day” approaches, we might not have the community gathered to ooh and aah, but we can celebrate moving forward with open hearts and mindfulness, with inclusivity and togetherness. Here’s to “Far and Wide” and “Glowing Hearts”.
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