Friday, September 09, 2005

The Strong and Proud, My Dad

Ok, I am sitting here, trying not to stress about my dad's operation tomorrow. Yes, I know quad bypass is considered routine nowadays, but the fact that they are ripping open my dads chest, and cracking his rib cage, manhandling his get the picture....Well, its kind of bugging me.

You see, I am having a hard time with this, because my Dad has always been larger than life, strong, unstoppable. My dad came from dirt poor poverty from the bowels of Sydney, Cape Breton. (Whatever you do, never, ever, say he is from Nova Scotia. He's a Cape Bretoner ...Period)
They had a very hard life, large family, tiny home, rough upbringing.

But he surpassed all that and came out on top. Educated himself , worked harder than any man I know, to make a good life for his family. We never wanted for anything growing up.

How do I describe my Dad? Hard working, a rebel (you have no idea), incredibly smart, sarcastic, fun, hot tempered, crazy, silly, Harley riding, rule breaking, proud, confident, strong willed, tough and afraid of nothing.

The things I love most about my Dad:

How every time I talk to him, he has a new plan. Today he will sell the house in Breslau, move up north to live at the cottage, next week he will sell it all and buy a bait and tackle shop and live in a shack by the lake...The week after....You get the it.

How he NEVER fails to jump at the opportunity to embarrass those he loves. For example: On Christmas eve a few years ago, it hadn't snowed, a few biker friends had rode over on their bikes. My littlest brother, 13 at the time, took too long in the shower. My dad started explaining the rules of masturbation to him in front of all of us. " You know Mike, its best to whack off in the shower, cause then your Mom don't have to find them dirty sheets" " How often do you do it?" " You know its normal, I do it too" I have never again seen someone that shade of red. I don't think the poor kid is right to this day. (Notice I use one of my brothers embarrassing moments..Not mine) (Remind me to do a post on newfie Christmas later...We have that cornered.)

At the age of 33, he still calls me "my darling, my duck" and his smelly shelly. (leave it on the blog people)

How no matter what little thing I accomplish....He is always so proud of me (and the tears are now starting)

How when he looks at my little daughter who is my mini me, I know by his expression, he is remembering me at that age.

How he never fails to amaze me with what he can accomplish when he puts his mind to it...Like deciding to and getting his pilots license after the age of 55.

There is so much more, but I am a little vaclempt and most I couldn't put into words anyways.

I know he is stressed tonight, lying in his hospital room, waiting for tomorrow to come. I hate that this is being done in Toronto and not at home. I just wish he was closer.

Thinking about you and praying for you, ye Olde Farte! Get your ass back home and on to living a healthy life again. Now you won't be so tired all time.

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