Remember Dad.

I remember the night my mom died... my dad was a short man, stocky, strong but only about 5'3" or 5'4" I had to remove my heels to dance with him at my grad.. but he was always 10' tall in my brain. Until I watched him walk into the family room at the hospital.

He was a farmer, one of the younger of 11, parents immigrants from the old country, first generation Canadian, Ukranian by descent, mostly. Farmer and oh so much more.

I don't know that much about my dad's childhood, or even his teenaged years, for that matter not much of his young adulthood either. I know he married a local girl, had 6 children with her, of which 2 did not survive. She passed (I believe) of cancer at a young age, my info is sketchy but I think she was 39.

When the youngest was about 12 (my brother) he married my mom. A widow, crippled at aged 7 with polio. She'd been the housekeeper. My sisters, then 14 and two older as well (gotta keep the details down to a minimum you understand, as well I'd have to do the math to figure out how old they were.. suffice it to say both were married and well on their way with their families. I'm older than the oldest's youngest of 5 by 2 months.) Anyhoo... the housekeeper, quite a scandal.

Again, my info is sketchy...not because I don't care, but because I'm hesitant to ask.. to hear the versions.. I prefer my dad's information, given to me at the birth of my first daughter, when he arrived on my doorstep after a rather interesting conversation with my eldest sister... "Dad wants to come visit you and the baby..." "Okay, when are you guys coming?" "No, DAD wants to come, on his own... on the bus..." "...." "Yep..." "Ummm...okay...." You see, being a farmer my dad never voluntarily went on a holiday in his life, to my knowledge. So for him to want to come to see me was odd, and to do so on his own, even more so. But whatever... the point is, during that visit he told me that he loved my mom. That she wanted a child and that he'd have given her everything. That is good enough for me.

I am my mom's child. I didn't fall far from that tree when it comes to crafts, cooking, sensitivity or intelligence. Not that my dad wasn't an intelligent man.. he was ... very... I don't remember him sitting down ever without a book to read, unless he was playing cards. I grew up an only child, with a father who was 56 when I was born. My mom was 41. I don't remember either of them without white or grey hair. I don't really recognize them in the early pictures in the photo albums.

But the ones where I'm standing next to him, a huge umbrella of hay in a pitchfork over his shoulder, me with a much smaller umbrella and much smaller fork for that matter, over mine. That man I recognize.

The one who hid my mom's best knife for 6 months because despite warnings from her to the contrary he just had to cut the frozen keilbasa with it and snap the blade off in a half moon. That man I remember well.

The one with the twinkle in his eye as he told me some outlandish explanation for why the planets revolved around the sun to see if I knew my facts on space well enough for a test. The man who came in with tears in his eyes to tell me that my dog Laddie had died, and who bawled as he dug the hole for the faithful friend. The gentle hands on my horse's leg as we dressed and soaked a wound day after day, the same ones that packed the mud and chicken shit tightly in the burlap sack around his forelegs when he foundered and the voice that told me to stand him in the creek till my legs were numb. The guy who agonized with his 5th grade education over my 8th grade arethmetic. The guy who read my text books at night when he thought I was in bed to stay ahead of me. The one who danced with me at my grad, my chin nearly resting on his head while I did.

The man who at 76 turned a somersault (of which I have pictures) because his granddaughter asked him to...

The one who lay in the bed at the nursing home, curled on his side, eyes blinking furiously when I told him I was there.

That man I remember.

I love you Dad.