Remembering Dad

                                                                    Dad at 88. 

Since writing for me always helps me feel like I am with someone, today I write about my father. 

For me June is filled with Dad as his Presence lingers near between his birthday June 10th and Father’s Day.

Robert “Nelson” Stevenson was born June 10, 1920. 

Since his death in 2009 it has been my ritual on June 10th, to remember Dad by wandering through the azalea and rhododendron gardens of friend and neighbour Freeman Patterson. Thank you Freeman. 

My father was brilliant - a self taught farmer and carpenter. His DNA is on all his children’s homes as he was instrumental in building each of our homes. His DNA is also on everything from crokinole boards to wooden garbage cans as it was my parents practice to not make just one of anything, rather five of whatever was the latest Christmas Gift - one for each home of their five children.  

His hands were both rough from hard labour and gentle. He could calm an animal with a gentle swept of his hands over its back. He could swing his partner, the love of his life, my mother, round and round to Lord MacDonald’s Reel. 

My father was a wise, kind, smart, loyal, generous person. His overhauls served as the family bank. Heading out the door to high school I would often ask, “Any change?" Dad would say, “Check my overhauls hanging behind the door.” And sifting through pockets of chaff, nails and binder twine I would always find enough change for lunch. There was always enough. 

Growing up on the family farm, I was fortunate to have a father who was always there. Rarely missing a meal, he would often gulp down his food. In winter we would push the dishes to the side, pull out the hockey game and Dad would play a game or two before heading out to the barn for the evening milking. In summer, he would stop on the way to the barn, join the baseball game, hit a few balls and be on his way. Always within range of my mother’s “Yea-hoo Nelson”

No matter how busy it was on the farm, my father had time to ‘clean up’ on Saturday night and head out to a dance or gather with friends around a card table.

Scrubbed and shiny, on Sunday morning we shared the family pew in a small brick country church. Still, when a minster would invite Dad to serve as a church ‘elder,’ he always refused; claiming he was not ‘good enough.’ Something I never understood. 

Don’t get me wrong, my father also has his foibles like all of us. Still I am so very grateful to have called him Dad. 

It’s interesting how the older we become, how much smarter our parents become.  It was not until I had my own children, that I realized that my parents didn’t have any more of a clue than I did. They were trying their best, just like I was.

Still the love of my parents is the foundation of my life for which I am forever grateful. 

Finally, I wonder - am I getting smarter in my children’s eyes?