Memories of my Dad

We will soon be celebrating “Father’s Day.”  I would like to share some fond memories of my Dad.


It’s twenty-five years now, since Dad passed away.  He had a stroke and was gone in 42 days. I wasn’t able to say “Good-bye,” because he could not respond. Since then, I’ve had many memories of little experiences during the years when he was alive and well.


I recall when I was about a year old and determined to see if Santa Claus had come.  I ventured down the steps in the blackness of night and tumbled down with enough noise to wake the household.  I hadn’t discovered whether Santa Claus had already come or not, but lovingly, Dad carried me back to my bed.  He suggested that I should be patient until morning, and then see if Santa had come in the night.  He came, either before or after my little incident.


I could have been two years old when Dad was a Scout leader and considered me too young to participate.  Mom suggested that I should go where the group was having its wiener roast.  It was across a field in a bush, and I remember running over the rough terrain.  The Scouts and Dad were easily located and I was welcomed.  Dad put a spare Scout belt on me, which was too large for a little guy.  Then he swung me back and forth in it. In a few years I grew into the belt. Ultimately, it was a keepsake.


I couldn’t have been much older when I foolishly pounded a piece of broken windowpane with a hammer, just to see the ‘diamonds’ fly this way and that.  Suddenly, a sharp piece flew into my eye.  I cried and cried. Dad was home and he immediately saw what had happened and he carried me, crying all the way to Dr. Scratch’s office, in the business part of the small town of Maymont Saskatchewan.  I remember the doctor lighting a match to cast a shadow across my eye, to see if there was a fragment of glass imbedded in it.  He could see nothing, which was logical, because my crying on the way would have washed out any tiny fragment.  It was providential that the speck of glass had been washed out.


I was fortunate, because in my work years later as an optometrist, I saw, as I examined the eyes of a young fellow, what looked like a ‘shooting star’ on his cornea.  The lad explained that it was a splinter from a pop bottle that broke as it struck the goal post.  It was being used as a puck during street hockey.  This small piece of glass flew into his cornea and imbedded itself for several years.  I realized then, how anxious Dad would have been as he watched Dr. Scratch looking for a fragment of glass in my eye.


I would have been four when I happened to be under the wooden steps of the church next door to us in Maymont Saskatchewan.  Sitting above me was my sister Euna and her friend Mary Rogers, having a friendly chat. Seeing the scraps of paper and twigs around me, I had the bright idea of playing a joke on them by setting a small fire immediately beneath them. I scurried home and saw that my mother was occupied in the kitchen.  Quietly, without causing any distraction, I moved a chair to the cupboard where I knew she kept the matches.  Reaching up, I took a couple.  Away I ran, behind the church, then around towards the front and under the steps.  The girls were still having their little visit.  After gathering a small patch of paper and twigs, I lit a small fire and the smoke curled nicely up between them.  They were taken entirely by surprise and called out, “Fire!”  I was out of there, rounding the back of the church, then home, in short order.


I remember seeing some people running with buckets.  They responded quickly.  I could not have been recognized. However, when dad came home from school that afternoon, he asked me to come and sit on his knee because he wanted to talk.  He asked if I had anything to do with the fire under the church steps.  I denied knowing anything about it, and the reason for that was that I was afraid of being punished, not only for setting the fire but also for acquiring the matches.  In all the years since then, I never admitted to my dad that I was the person responsible, and I still carry the guilt of not answering my dad truthfully.  I believe he knew and was satisfied that if I wouldn’t tell him I did it, I would not tell anyone else. My secret would be safe.  Nevertheless, I still wish I had told him at some time.  I will tell him when I see him in Heaven although he will have known.


I recall when I was four, having broken the neighbour’s window with a softball when tossing it to my brother.  Dad recognized it as an accident and only asked me to be more careful. I remember him repairing the window, doing what I didn’t yet have the skill to do and I appreciated it.


I was only five when I drove my wagon on the highway that passed our house in Lashburn Saskatchewan.  I would put my right knee in the wagon and use the left leg for power.  Many miles were made on my wagon, and an early demise was certain if I continued to drive it on the road. Dad convinced the school’s principal to enroll me in grade one.  My life was saved and this is the reason why I got an early start in school.


For two years we lived in Kinloss Ontario, where our home was connected to a corner store.  It was located where the Goderich highway intersects with the highway that runs between Kincardine and Walkerton. Dad renovated the old-fashioned store and built shelves that were a convenient height.  He and my mother loved working in the store.  When I came home from school one day, Dad was leaning back against the counter talking to a customer seated across from him. He was preparing a long bamboo rod for me to go fishing with the grade two class.  My dad was very thoughtful to prepare a fishing pole for my school field trip.


We moved back to Lashburn Saskatchewan because Dad had been offered the position of High School principal and he decided to accept.  Our family loved to go to Lake Waskesiu for holidays and we enjoyed fishing with our dad.  One of us would row the boat while the others trolled and caught big Jackfish.  There are pictures of us with many fish strung on a rope.  Dad taught us to clean them so Mom could prepare delicious fish dinners. I have precious memories of those holidays with our family.


Dad was an expert carpenter.  Before he married Mom, he would work in the summers building barns with his dad.  He told us about building a dairy barn with the two main sections meeting at right angles.  The roof was a half-circle.  It required an especially shaped rafter where the two roofs met.  In the fall, he took the dimensions to his Mathematics class at the university.  With assistance from his professor, he returned in the spring with a formula for the rafter that would join the two sections of the dairy barn.  I was always amazed that Dad accepted that challenge. How he succeeded in enabling the carpenters to build the correct rafter on the ground intrigued him.


Dad took classes in his first year of university and for the remainder of his BA in History and Mathematics he corresponded.  Meanwhile, Dad kept books for his clients. Mom and Dad raised five of us.  Dad was a High School principal when I was born.  Mom told us that Dad celebrated by giving chocolate bars to his students.  It was wonderful to have his assistance when we were doing homework.  His help in Algebra and Trigonometry was immeasurable when we were in High School.  As a result, I did well in Math in the final exams and it was easier for me when I went to university.


Dad promised that he would assist me financially in going to university as long as I was achieving, but he would not do so if I didn’t continue to be conscientious.  He recalled my days in High School when I spent more time building motor scooters than doing homework.  He promised me his own violin, which I was already playing, if I passed with a sufficient grade to enter university.  He also promised me a set of bagpipes if I would learn to play them.  He wanted very much to learn how to play the pipes himself and he would find it so much better if we could learn together.  We learned to play the pipes, Dad and I and my brother Ken.  For many years, the three of us paraded with the band and Dad especially enjoyed the times when we marched in the same row.  In January 1976, Dad, Ken and I played with the Massed Pipes and Drums of Winnipeg in the Rosebowl Parade in Pasadena, CA.


After I had graduated in Science from the University of Manitoba, Dad met the Dean of the College of Optometry who was in Winnipeg to tell the Kiwanians about the advances in the profession and the plans its board of directors had to advance the course of studies.  A university degree would be required for entrance.  Dad introduced me to Dr. Edward Fisher, the Dean, during the few hours he had in the city.  I am thankful that Dad thought this profession would interest me and that I might want to meet the dean.  I credit my Dad for his concern for my future and for letting me know of this opportunity to apply to the College of Optometry.  I enrolled in the new course and ultimately became successful in the profession.  Dad was happy when he could tell his friends that Keith is an optometrist and Ken is a dentist.


While I was studying at the University of Toronto, I didn’t write home as frequently as I should have.  One day, while I was studying in the College of Optometry’s Library, the phone rang and I realized there was no one in the office.  I answered the phone immediately, and recognized my dad’s voice.  He enquired how I was and I wondered if he often phoned the College to ask the dean how I was doing.  I never knew if this was a one and only call, but it was great to hear Dad and to be assured that he and Mom loved me.  Dad said Mom was anxious about me and that I should write to her.


There are numerous other stories reminiscent of my Dad.  I will write about them also.