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March 19, 2003 - "Dad"
Welcome to 2TheHeart!
"I should not make any promises right now, But I know if you pray, somewhere in this world - Something good will happen." ~Hafiz, 1319-1389 Persian Poet and Teacher
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I know we have many readers who relate to the stories John Gaudet shares with us about his childhood. John's words have been healing for so many and his example of using pain as a stepping-stone to growth, courage and accomplishment is indeed inspiring!
"Dad"
by John Gaudet
It s funny how death distorts reality and bad people suddenly become good. The man who had no time for his children and mistrusted his wife would suddenly be known as and referred to as a loving father and caring husband. And how the truly good people seem to gain a saint-like status that no one could ever really live up to in real life. I think of these things and more as I kneel at my father's grave, the sky gray and grumbling in threatening tones.
He would have said "Old mother natures got a gut ache today again boy, she's gonna start peeing all over us soon".
He was a short stocky self-made cowboy with a knack for funny sayings and the odd French outburst. He ran the local SPCA and cared for abused and problem horses on our little city owned hobby farm. Life had really gone a few rounds with him as he used to say and his face showed it. In fact one day he came home chuckling about how he had gone to get his driver's license and they had described his complexion as "ruddy". This tickled him to no end and we heard many variations of it through the following days.
It was in high school that I began to notice that there was something wrong with him. It wasn't anything he said because he would never have said anything. It was just the way he began to act and talk. He became sullen and withdrawn and the fights between him and my stepmother increased both in volume and in violence, inevitably he would throw something or punch a wall as he stormed from the house shouting obscenities in French and English. Nowadays this could probably have been diagnosed and treated with some kind of medication bearing a laboratory-made name.
In fact we may even have been able to talk about it to him, in some roundabout uncomfortable way. But this was the seventies and it would be years before it would be politically correct for men to cry or show any weakness. Depression wasn't widely recognized as a disease and certainly it wouldn't apply to a man my father aspired to be.
His rigid sense of responsibility would never allow him to blame his problems on something unseen, or confess his inner agony to anyone. I shrink inside when I think of his inner turmoil and what he must have been going through while I was splashing through life with the blind selfishness of a teenager.
Did he ever look at me and think that he was proud to be my dad? Did he ever turn to me to tell me something important of his life, only to find me too tightly wrapped up in my own trivial teenage life of video games and phone calls?
If only we had time to talk.
I would have asked how he met my mom, how he learned to break horses and ride? What kind of books did he like and what did he think of the way I was growing up? I never got to ask these things as he tragically lost his silent fight with depression two months after my sixteenth birthday and took his own life one night on our little farm.
I think of the whirlwind of activity afterwards, the police, the seldom seen relatives clucking in knowing tones hushedly trying to plan my future. We laid him to rest in the local cemetery with a flat stone to mark his final real estate.
I struck out on my own after that and had my own go-a rounds with life. I won a few and lost a few. I am now in a good place for me, I have a sweet little eight-year-old girl who also loves horses and who is in French immersion classes. I look at her and see flashes of a man I knew and loved , the turn of her nose, the spark in her eyes, and I think of how he would have adored knowing her. They have both missed so much.
The grass is damp with dew by his grave and I shake the cobwebs of memory from my mind with a twist of sorrow. I better get back to the van and go pick my girl up from school. She has a riding lesson then we are going to McDonalds. We have a date every Thursday after her lessons to go to McDonalds and talk. I tell her what I remember of her grandpa and I answer her questions about my own life.
She tells me of her hobbies and wants, her likes and dislikes. I do this to honor my father and our lost time together and I always look at her with pride.
My father might have been depressed about his life but it was that life and how it affected me that has made things so good for my daughter and I today.
Like ripples in a pond everything we do has a lasting consequence and the choices we make affect everyone we know and love.
Through his turmoil and death a strong young man emerged. He became a loving father in real life, and hopefully a man his father would have liked to know.
John Gaudet copyright 2002
drmrjohn@sasktel.net
John is our February Writer of the Month and has written "The Eraser", "Dad's Belt" and "A Bag of Kindness", all found in our archives: www.2theheart.com/archives . John lives in northern Saskatchewan, Canada with his wife Chantalle and eight-year old daughter Charisa and looks forward to the email he receives from our 2TheHeart family!
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The Letter Box:
2theheart,
Chuck's washing machine story had me rolling on the floor as I remember the same antics we had to go through with our washer in the forties. My mom got some neighbor ladies and they put water hoses and an extension cord on it. We'd take both cars out of the garage and "turn it loose" like a wild animal bucking and pitching. Oh for a video camera back then. What a hoot. Mark Crider
Hi Chuck,
Well, it's about time we read another of your youthful stories written in your own inimitable way. Your ears must have been burning, for just recently your name and hilarious tales were bantied about amongst your fellow essayists wondering where you got to. I'm so glad the mood has struck you again for I know not a soul who doesn't appreciate your wit. Your epochs are to everyday plain and simple as Norman Rockwell is to paintings. Keep 'em comin'.
Hugs, Kath
Chuck,
I love your story, It's good to have you back. Those spiders must have made a big impression on you. The spiders under our house are Black Widows. Now that's scary!
We had an old washing machine many years ago, early in our marriage. Your story brought it to mind. One day I was in the middle of washing our clothes when the machine died. The next machine had a rubber tub. After washing, the tub squeezed the water out of the clothes. Not very efficient. Neither machine "walked" across the floor. I can hardly wait for your next story.
Your friend, Pat Lowe
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