My Father's Eyes

  

             I always just assumed that as children we view our parents differently than when we know them as adults. While I recognize this may not be the case for some, it is only logical to believe that this is a relative statement for many. As a boy, my world revolved around my comic books, my G.I. Joes and both my parents. Friends were most welcome, but to be honest, they more or less interfered with my playtime. School was quite often a boring internment and most of my siblings were a somewhat inconvenient distraction. I cherished my Mother and I revered my Father. When my Mother passed away, a part of my life faded forever from me. I held her in such high regard that the emotional hole left from her death seemed to chisel itself deeper with each passing month. It remains although the grief long ago found its place, but there is not enough to ever fill that void. Her exit found many with a gaping chasm where our hearts used to beat. 

             My Father was left rather empty-handed. He was broken, damaged and you could tell from the aura about him that this wound would never scar and heal. He had to decide whether to live or die, to continue or to perish, a decision on which he still went back and forth with, depending entirely on the day. When I was a kid, my Father was without a doubt the strongest person I knew. He always seemed to have so much control, although his stoic and calm demeanour in no way masked his love for his family, particularly for his wife. He was fiercely loyal, completely reliable and a sound provider. In spite of his gruff exterior, one could often find him playing with his children and even the neighbour kids. Come winter he would occasionally ice up the backyard so his children could have their own space to skate. He taught us all how to glide, although I must admit that skating was never my forte. There are black and white photos of him and I from the 1960s.  It is always the strangest thing for me to see them, the childlike wonder that possessed him on such occasions. I feared that these moments had somehow disappeared forever when my Mom passed away.

           With few exceptions, I spoke to my Father every day since my Mother died. The closeness I once shared with her flourished between him and me. It was my duty to watch over him, a promise I made to my Mother the year before she passed. I take great pleasure from the friendship we cultivated out of all the shit life can bring. My daily phone call to him found a mixture of sorrow, joy and resolve. He chose to carry on although he didn't like it one bit. Over the past decade, he continually demonstrated that life goes on even when we wish it would not. Initially, he was constantly out and about with my sister, travelling from garden shop to thrift store in search of goodies and bargains. He celebrated holidays such as Easter and Christmas with a commitment to honor his wife and the family they created together. He put his mask on and faced Covid like we all had too. He was careful not to catch anything. The box in which Mom’s ashes rest was greeted with fresh flowers and her memory thrives like a memory should. Just before the original lockdown in 2020, Dad developed severe breathing problems. It was his COPD. I initially thought that Covid-19 was about to take him. He was in hospital for almost a week, the exact week before all the virus shit hit the fan. He did what my father had always done. He picked himself up, dusted off and started all over again. Unfortunately, he soon after fell in the bathroom and injured himself. Right in the middle of the coronavirus epidemic he crashed and damaged his body. It was strange to see him having to wear a surgical mask. I’m not sure I will ever get used to the images of him in hospital. He did not look well.. He still made an effort to stay active. Family members continued to take him all over Ontario in search of this or that. His fortitude was humbling and his ability to endure astounding to me.

             He just stood there like a four year old. His eyes were glazed over with a certain kind of joy and his mouth hung open like a garbage chute. He seemed enchanted, if even for a moment. Pinned to the wall, behind a sheet of tempered glass, that black 1961 Harmony six string guitar caught his imagination like a Red Ryder BB Gun would. He was almost dazed and rather confused. I had never seen my Father like this before. In my youth, he was always a hard working man. By the time supper was over, he rested heavy on the living room floor. Weekends grew busy as his five children grew older and he appeared to have little time for anyone including himself. I never once concluded that he was unhappy. I recall moments when the spirit of his family, and the Spirit of his God, blended as laughter and love and even glee at some point. Until he discovered that guitar, I had never seen the child within him like I did on that day. Seeing my Father come to life like that had an incredible impact on me. I paid attention like you are supposed to do. 

            Less than a week passed and that guitar found itself in a safe place among my own treasures. It took no convincing for me to purchase this antique as a Christmas present for my Dad that year. It was in most excellent condition, a condition confirmed when I took it in for a final tuning before sealing its fate. Come November, I hid it inside a 55" television crate, crammed with cardboard until it could not move. The case which had come with it ensured safe storage. The shiny silver gift wrap covering the box met black ribbon, a large silver bow and his Christmas card. For over a month it sat nestled near my Christmas tree. I could hardly wait to give it to him. It was my wish that it not only gave him something completely self-absorbing to do but I hoped he would recognize that even after my Mother's death, some things are still worth living for, especially music. Growing up he had played. The antique banjo he would strum upon rested in the piano room of his home joining the autoharp and glockenspiel my Mother played, each nestled carefully on top of an old Bell piano. They were testament to the love of music my parents have given to their offspring. This was a gift much more important than any value. 
 

         Holidays come and go and the seasons follow with them. Most of the gifts we give find themselves forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind is a pretty standard fair. The guitar I gave my father is a mere part of the whole. He doesn’t really use it and its purpose is lacking but it remains just the same.  The briefest, smallest of moments when he first became enchanted left a lasting impression on me. I will never be able to forget the look on my Dad's face when he first discovered  this joy. I am now convinced that through all the pain and all the loneliness there was a part of him very much alive. He would argue that his end was near, but anyone could say exactly the same thing. It's not the time you have left that matters. It's what you do with that time that counts. To have given him but one moment of joy amidst the chaos meant more to me than almost anything sweet I have known in this life. I will be forever grateful that I was given the opportunity to give him that.

            My Father was a man of great Faith and great conviction. For me, he represents the truest sense of how a person of his Faith is supposed to be. You could see it in his eyes. He survived regardless of any abandon he may have suffered through. Despite Covid-19, he stayed strong. Despite several falls and broken bones he remained intact for the most part. He used to tell me it was his Faith that helped him though. 

            You grow up thinking that there comes a time when your parents can no  longer teach you anything else about life. Society even convinces you that eventually you switch roles and they become the child while you must be the parent. I am not surprised, that over the last few years of his life, at that stage of the game, that I continued to learn from my Dad. Through all the pain, all his agony, he was still, deep within, essentially the same. He had been so all along. When he passed in November 2022, he finally got what he asked for over the last 6 months of his life. He did not want to be here, In the end, grief does not kill, it grows us stronger. All that remains are small moments, childlike innocence, and for some, an old guitar. 

"This old guitar taught me to sing a love song, 
it showed me how to laugh and how to cry.
It introduced me to some friends of mine
And brightened up some days.
It helped me make it through some lonely nights.
What a friend to have on a cold and lonely night"
(This Old Guitar, John Denver 1974)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Summer 1970

Toronto Ontario