Dad

My Dad died at the end of September last year. He had brain cancer.

I spent most of August and September back in Nova Scotia, visiting him every day in his palliative care ward. On his good days I would take him for a walk outside in a wheelchair, and we talked, or listened to music. He loved Mozart. And Patsy Cline.

On worse days, near the end, he lay in bed, desperately gasping to stay alive while I read to him and held his hand, hoping, or pretending, that he knew I was there. I silently wept.

I have written about my Dad here, and the beginning of his illness here. Those words give only a glimpse into the complicated love of our relationship. Now, thoughts of Dad smack me many times a day, leaving me sometimes smiling, sometimes aching, sometimes anguished. I can't write about them. Yet.

I didn't know that losing my Dad would be so hard, or that the pain would still be so dense. I miss him.


Above photo: Dad in 1988 (with my son).

Top photo: Dad in 2000 at Machu Picchu, Peru. He gave me my love of travel and of mountains.
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The 1969 science fair

" I can't decide whether to take the money or the prize."
"Take the prize" Dad advised. "The money will be spent next week, but this prize is something you will use forever."

I thought longingly of the five dollars. I could buy this new stuff that had just come out, shiny lip gloss. And some aqua blue eye shadow. In 1969, in grade 7, these were precious items. But in the end I took my Dad's advice, and chose the prize. Sophia Caccione, the third place winner, got the five bucks. I had won second place in the Junior High science fair. Well, actually my Dad did.

My science fair project was grandiosely called a "base-2 computer". Weeks earlier, when I was struggling with ideas for a science fair project, my Dad had asked, "Well, what are you studying right now in math class?"

"Um, binary numbers. I don't really understand it" I said. (I said this about math class often.)

"Well, that's great," said Dad. "We could make a kind of counting computer that displays numbers in binary code, base-2."

I had no idea what Dad was talking about, but I liked the sound of "WE". My Dad is a civil engineer. "Let's sit down and draw up some plans" he said. We sat. He drew. The next weekend, plans in hand, we went to the hobby store and bought meccano stuff: gears, wires, little levers, lights and a battery. I could not have put these together to make a base-2 counter any more than I could have ridden my pink banana bike to the moon.

We spent many evenings in the basement workshop, putting this marvel together. I watched a lot, or occasionally held something steady, while Dad bolted parts, connected wires, and patiently explained the concepts as we progressed. By the end of this project, I actually understood how binary code worked. And still do. When it was finished, it was amazing. You could press a lever marked 1 through ten, and the number would be displayed in binary code in a series of lights that went off or on to represent zero or one.

Dad I should have won first place. Instead of Danny Finkelstein's stupid exploding volcano. Anyone can mix vinegar and baking soda and put it under a paper volcano. Dad I had made a freakin base-2 computer. How cool is that!

There were other projects my Dad and I did together over the years. (Remember the huge plaster model of a glacial valley Dad? You I got an A in geography that year because of it.)

Thanks for that Dad. Those hours in the workshop working with you were special. Your patience and help were priceless. I love you for it. So in honour of Father's Day, I am passing on to you the prize you advised me to take at the 1969 science fair. The one you said I would use forever. The one I gave up lip gloss and blue eye shadow for.

The slide rule.

Hard Boiled Digital

I am nervously waiting for an e-mail from my Dad with a photo attached. Any photo, taken on his new digital camera, downloaded into his computer, and then attached to an e-mail. Dad goes geek! Well, I hope. I have yet to see the evidence.

You see, digital photography is new to Dad. And Dad doesn’t pull off new as well as he does the-tried-and-true. Don’t misunderstand me, he is a very intelligent man, with a master’s degree in engineering. But ask him to do something he has never tried before, and, well….. his normally first-rate brain can all but shut down.

Let me illustrate. Before Dad retired, he made himself the same breakfast every day. A CPR (Canadian Pacific Railway) egg and toast. To make a CPR egg (where he got this I have no idea), you boil an egg for 3 minutes so it is totally runny and the white is barely congealed. Dad had a timer for this. Then slice off the top and scoop the egg into a glass with a glop of butter, salt and pepper. It has to be a clear glass so you can really see how gross this concoction is. Mix the mess up in the glass with a fork, and serve with toast. This was the only kind of egg Dad knew how to cook.

One day, my mother was busy preparing a Christening luncheon. (For my son’s Christening actually, and I was useless to her, rendered frazzledly stupid with figuring out how a newborn baby works. It was new to me you understand.) She had to run an errand, and in desperation asked my dad to hard boil a dozen eggs for her.

“HARD boiled? I’ve never cooked a hard boiled egg. How do I do that?” asked the man with the post-graduate education.

“Don’t be dense dear, cook them for exactly 10 minutes.” Mom left.

So my dad got out a big pot, put 12 eggs in it, filled it to the top with cold water, put it on the stove, and set the timer to 10 minutes. Then turned on the burner. Uh huh. You can figure out the rest. Devilled eggs did not make it on the luncheon menu.

Now Dad, I can see your pained expression. You are thinking, “How long will I have to live with the damn hard boiled egg episode?” Forever, Dad. It’s a family legend. And, in case you are wondering, Mom gave me permission to write about you. “Sure you can write about your old parents” she assured me when I was visiting last week. You were at choir practice. Now Dad, don’t say “But I was not there, so it’s not like I actually decided…” Yeah Dad, it is. Making decisions for her husband is a wife's privilege after 50 years of marriage. Does it work in reverse? Hell no.

I’m waiting for that e-mail photo Dad. Forget the eggs. I have faith.

Today's dream travel destination: Kerala, India, where my parents will be travelling in a few weeks, and the reason for the new digital camera.