Happy Birthday Daddy

Something I don't talk enough about is my relationship with my Father.

We didn't always get along and maybe this is why. 

What I remember most was his ability to make others laugh. He was a funny guy - cracking jokes and being silly to pass the time. As kids we liked him best this way. Now that was a long time ago.

One of his favourite things to do was play music. Our Dad had awesome taste in music and eventually he started a DJ business with a friend. They played for parties, a wedding here and there. And videos - Dad loved taking pictures and video. He never graduated High School. In fact I think I was told he stopped going half way through grade 12; said he wanted to work. He started working as a waiter in an Italian restaurant. He was 20 when he met our Mom.

When I was born we lived outside the city. Our whole block shared one phone line in the beginning, that's how far out we were. Mom told us if we wanted to use the phone we had to check first to see if the line was free. She'd tell us about picking up the phone sometimes just to silently listen in on the neighbours' conversations to pass the time. Other times they would leave the phone off the hook deliberately so she could make a call whenever she needed. Today a telephone is an extension of our hands and only people born in the '80s or earlier actually use their phone to make calls.

I didn't get a really good opportunity to be close to my Dad. He died suddenly and unexpectedly during the exam break in grade 10. It was January; dark first thing in the morning and dark again when you arrived home at the end of the day. I can't remember how that day started but I know I was home most of the week because we only needed to go into the school to take our exams. No one knew what was going on in our house. Mom left because she was worried and wouldn't take me with her because she had this gut feeling that something wasn't right. One day we saw him, his new place near the Bow River. And then he was gone.

He would buy us kids the same gifts in different colours. One year it was golf clubs for Christmas - my set was yellow. Another year we got scooters, a red one and a blue. I can still picture him squinting one eye into the video camera lens, you know the kind that takes those compact cassettes? Like any Dad on Christmas morning, "What Did You Get?" and "What Do You Think?" were the usual follow up questions. It was always an interview with Dad. He loved asking questions, that must be where I get it from.

I can still remember the morning of 9/11 in our living room. Mom was standing in the kitchen making our lunches. I was eating breakfast at the table without a clue. The kitchen and living room were on opposite walls so from where she was standing she had a full view of the TV. Dad must have heard on the radio upstairs because he had his tie on already and seemed like he was leaving for work any second. Mom was yelling, "Tony, Oh My God, This is LIVE! This is RIGHT NOW." They were glued to CNN Breaking News. These are some of the oldest memories I have of him. 

Eventually, as I got a little older my Mom shared some things with me that didn't make my sympathy for Dad increase any. I didn't have sympathy for him at all. He left. He cheated. He lied. He wanted something else, not us. It's not his fault and it's not Mom's either. But I know he had a good heart. I know he needed to be loved a lot more than he was by his own parents. And when I found out my parents were going to get divorced I didn't feel anything. It's almost as if I understood how natural that was. Bearing in mind I heard some of their screaming matches. Watched my Dad throw a cordless phone across the room, seeing it smash to pieces. Hearing the words exasperatedly, "I don't want to be a Husband. I don't want to be a Father." while I sat at the table doing my homework. The weird thing is I don't remember why I let myself get so angry. That's just who he was. He was passionate and jealous and angry, too.

To be honest with you I still have questions about what my Mom did. I want to know why Dad said some things to me. It pains me to wish I knew him better. Life is so fucking precious we seem to forget that love is often enough. My Dad hated when I'd say, "Love You Too" after telling us, "I Love You." Somehow to him it didn't hold the same meaning. But now I think I get it. And because of this I repeat the words, "I Love You" to my husband after he says it to me. 

Even if love tends to make us do strange things it's like riding a bicycle. You can't forget how to tell someone you love them. This is the best thing my Dad ever taught me. Today he would have been 54.