Sandy Supposes....

Father B.

         June 21st, 2020.

         

         

         

         

Today is Father's Day in Canada. Hooray! Yippee! This selfless parent deserves a special day to himself. My Dad left this earth a year ago and I miss him. I still regret that his mailed birthday card had been delayed and he died before knowing that I hadn't forgotten him.

         We kids never gifted our father with ties or fancy clothing. This is not to say that he never wore a suit and tie. He could and did dress up and clean up for special occasions. I always remember he matched his tie to his socks, so a coral tie had a brother pair of socks. I adopted this fashion tip and attempt to colour coordinate my own socks and shirts. Most of the time, he chose to be casual. He preferred to be barefoot and shirtless.

         At the garage where he toiled as a diesel mechanic, Dad wore what we referred to as work clothes, simple right? I don't believe he ever mastered oil or grease avoidance. In a pocket a raggedy rag lay crumpled and waiting. It didn't always wipe his hands.

         I called him Father B. No reason, I just did. This man loved to cook. Spoons were rarely necessary. Those black-stained hands were never shy or ashamed. They tackled mixing and measuring, peeling and chopping , shaping and patting.

         Dad seemed to have a fondness for onions and they regularly appeared in all his masterpieces. To his daughters, he promised they would put hair on our chests. He swore onions would be good for us and I must admit they have yet to do me harm. As promised, the various spices cleared out our sinuses. To this day, head colds avoid me. Perhaps my nasal passages are burn scarred?

         When I choose to replicate one of my father's dishes, I imitate his disregard for measurement. This does require me to compromise though because his pinch or a handful dwarfs my own. My three hand scoops equal his one? Confession time, I dislike sticky hands, so I employ spoons for stirring. Sorry, Father B.

         Oh, how I can still smell the savoury smoke wafting from his pipe. That type of smoking appeared civilized and harmless. The various tobaccos perfumed the air. I'd sit and watch him prepare his pipe with a practised ritual. First, he'd clench his pipe between his teeth and consider something for a few seconds. Then he'd knock the contents from the bowl and if they proved stubborn, he'd flick open his pen knife and chisel out the spent tobacco. Selecting a pouch, Dad would shake its contents before he pulled out fingerful tuffs that he stuffed into the pipe's waiting bowl. Tamping it down tight, he'd strike a wooden match and hold the flame to the tip of the tobacco stash, puffing through the stem. Often, this important step needed to be repeated as he huffed and puffed to encourage burning. I can picture him with that pipe clenched between his teeth, aromatic smoke curling up 'round his head, while he lost himself in a book.

         Yes, Father B. set a wonderful example for me. He taught me that reading is the ultimate escape and enjoyment. All it demands is a bit of time and undivided attention. Reading adapts to any and all environments.

         Sigh, today is also National Selfie Day. No, Father B., never acquired this practice/hobby/addiction/habit. He'd adapted to all things computer and played with his to send e-mails and such, but he'd never had the urge to snap a photo of himself. A year before he passed, Dad purchased his first and only cell phone. He never had any intention to use it as a mobile phone for communication purposes. He wanted the camera features. His initial attempts to capture our faces frustrated him. According to him, the pictures disappeared never to be seen again. He did not understand that the cell phone automatically stored his photos in a file, a file he knew nothing about. Ah, it became his learning curve. He had to admit that the photos possessed a far superior quality than those from the 'old days' of point and shoot cameras with attached flash bulbs. In an instant, he could see for himself if a picture could be deemed worth saving or sharing. I cannot imagine Father B. posing under the hood of an immense transport truck for the purpose of a selfie. If he had attempted a selfie, that pipe would have stolen the spotlight. Now selfies of him cooking would've been fun. He claimed that the cutting of onions did not make him cry, but a selfie would've been the ultimate proof.

         Happy Father's Day Father B.! We shared eighty-one of them.