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Love Letters from Heather

Dear Dad

By Heather DownPublished 3 years ago 7 min read
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Dear Dad,

I gained a much fuller appreciation of you in 2018 when I asked point blank questions about your upbringing in order to glean a story for the anthology Brainstorm Revolution Wintertickle Press was publishing. You were 88 years old at the time and still chopping trees, cutting grass, shovelling driveways, checking Facebook—all things you might consider mundane, but things I think impressive!

Growing up, I didn’t know a lot about your childhood—or much about Grandpa. I knew you grew up in St. John’s, Newfoundland, during the Second World War and that your father, Grandpa, as I knew him, looked like an older, more-weathered version of you. A notable difference between you, however, was Grandpa’s index finger on his right hand. Half of it was missing. The top half, of course! (He was a machinist.)

To me, Grandpa was neither malice nor charisma. But when I observed you interact with him, the neutrality was palpable, a combination of calculated indifference and guard. A couple times a year we would drive from Oshawa to Hamilton—auto city to steel town—to visit him in his long-term care facility. Every Christmas we would bring him chocolate liqueurs, a box of tobacco, and rolling paper.

Newfoundland, during your childhood, was in the era when England claimed it as a British colony and before the time Canada called it a province. You were born in number 8 Eric Street. It still stands today; I’ve checked Google Earth. The house rests on a hill. To be fair, most everything in St. John’s sits on a hill, the city jutting both out and up from an unforgiving ocean harbour.

Measured in units of time, the Second World War was only decades ago; however, if measured by increments of change, the number would be infinite. It was a different world back then. St. John’s was a hub for the war—blackouts at night, don’t light a cigarette outside or leave the curtains undrawn—soldiers, air men all the time, everywhere. The first floor of your house was rented out to a Canadian petty officer and his wife, originally from Hamilton.

You describe your life as “good” despite the occasional fistfight with some of the tough kids at your inner-city school. You have told me you were skinny and hardly a threat. You also say that your own father changed when you were eight.

Something happened, but you don’t know what it was. Your dad began to drink and become abusive to your family. Friday nights—Friday was payday—your dad would bring home alcohol and newspapers, and after supper (quite often after an argument with your mother) he would go to his tiny bedroom and spend the weekend there, emerging only for meals.

Things did not improve with your father. However, when you hit your teens, you started liking school, or at least some subjects: geometry, algebra, trigonometry, physics, and English. You also developed an irresistible attraction to anything that had a wire connected to it. I am very grateful you never electrocuted yourself!

You have told me the story about how you read about crystal sets in Popular Mechanics. You ordered some parts from ads in a magazine and figured out how to fashion an antenna. Nobody challenged you as you went up the ladder on the outside of your two-storey house, sat on the edge of the roof, and attached the antenna wire that spanned down to your bedroom window. Now you could listen to the radio anytime you wanted to!

In fact, on August 5, 1945, when you heard the news of the first atomic bomb being dropped on Hiroshima, you were listening to that very crystal radio!

After the war, a surrendered German U-boat was put on display in St. John’s Harbour, allowing you the opportunity to tour its contents.

Eventually you would end up in Ontario, forging your own life, becoming a teacher mid-career. All this occurred before I was even born so for the longest time, I lacked context.

To me you were simply Dad, starting point, my birth. As far as I was concerned you had always been the teacher preparing the week’s lessons on Sunday afternoon, pecking away at the typewriter, developing interesting overhead projector slides and creating engaging lessons.

You were an incredible example of industry, innovation, and learning. You built a computer long before home computers were even a thing. Binary and circuitry, you explained. Everything worked in a series of on or off, 0 or 1. I remember writing some type of blinking “code” and saving it to a cassette tape in order to create a program that would generate a random number! It was high-tech stuff back then.

You never missed work. You were seldom sick, or if you were, you went anyway. I think you were able to retire a decade early because of all your accumulated sick days!

My favourite memories are the summers, though. The time when you were off work. Warm days and the smell of cut grass. Riding lawn mowers, vegetable gardens, and endless bike rides are reels stored in my mind. And the years we went to Newfoundland! Those were the best. You would buy an old van and kit it out for travel, complete with a fold-out bed (Mom would sew curtains).

But my absolute BEST summer memory? The Ontario Science Centre. Sometimes you would take Doug and me. Then when he was older, it was just me. And I loved it. The best part was the electricity presentation. You were so animated and excited! The negative ions made my blond hair stand straight up when I was touching the big silver whatever-it-was. I cannot think of the Science Centre without thinking of you.

I appreciated your dedication to work and your competence. I watched you go from teacher to department head to board consultant. You told me I could be whatever I wanted, but your example imprinted upon me that hard work equated a life well lived.

There is a phrase that I am sure you have said to me more than once because I think of it often when I try to rush a creative project: If it is worth doing, it is worth doing well. So true.

There is a second home truth that has stuck with me. I don’t know what I was whining about, but I was complaining about something being unfair. I am sure I was probably no more than 10 years old. You said: Life is not supposed to be fair.

A sentence that probably seemed inane to you at the time, something to shut up an emotional fair-haired little girl—and I bet you probably don’t even remember saying it. But what a gift! Probably the most incredible piece of perspective you have ever shared with me. I believe that little shift away from victim mentality has made all the difference for me. When we know life isn’t supposed to be fair, it frees us to accept what is and get on with things! You are a doer, and I believe I am, too. Because of you.

You are a lifelong learner. I can’t remember a time when you weren’t either teaching or taking night school courses. This need to learn extended long after your retirement. Several years back, when you were stricken with a mystery ailment that kept you off your feet for three months (turned out to be rheumatoid arthritis), you enrolled deeply in Dr. Google. Some things never fade, they just change hue.

You could build anything—from intricate model cars to cottages. And if you didn’t know how to do something, you could learn. It was remarkable.

Now, you have taken on the task of conquering more domestic tasks, such as cooking. Even as a child, I remember you making the best creampuff pastries and pulling taffy with you. But now, you bake incredible muffins and search the internet for the best vegan recipe blogs. The Minimalist Baker is one of your favourite sites!

You just know stuff…about everything. You will be 91 this year, but you rock it like it is the new 41!

I would be amiss if I claimed that my childhood was all unicorns and rainbows. It WAS tremendous, 99th percentile, I am certain. But I was an overly sensitive kid (and now adult) who was (is) prone to overthinking things. So I really appreciate knowing your path pre-me, your story. Where you started and where you are now gives me incredible perspective and pride.

I have always been proud of you, and please know that I love and appreciate you!

Your fierce independence and engaged mindset are amazing. Even though Father knows best, it wouldn’t hurt to allow us the opportunity to step it up a little and lend a hand from time to time. You earned it!

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Love,

Heather

PS. You need to press the squiggly icon to access your Facebook messages.

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About the Creator

Heather Down

I am an observer of life through the lens of middle age. Owner of an independent publishing house and a published author, I spend my time obsessing about all things communication. Follow me at Wintertickle Press.

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