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So, this is a spin-off from the old Cute and Uplifting thread, where I spent a few pages pontificating upon stories about my father. With some not-very-gentle encouragement from you fine folks, I was eventually convinced to copy the posts I had done into a new thread, and open the floor to you wonderful lot, to share stories about the awesome dads worldwide. First one, with photos.   Dad was born just after World War 2, and, within a month, was diagnosed with hemophilia (Factor VIII Variant), wherein his mother was told that it would be a miracle if he lived past the age of Four. The fact that I'm writing this speaks volumes to just how caring and enduring my grandparents and dad truly were, even if, in my dad's words, most of his life boiled down to 'three weeks in the hospital, one week out'. He did have plenty of shenanigans as a child, however, such as having his pants leg nailed to the roof by his grandfather (kept him from climbing up and down the ladder), or being chased down a mountainside by said same grandfather, who had tucked a sawn-off pine tree under one arm, and was using it as a lance to poke my dad in the backside to teach my dad how to run without hurting himself. (Great-grandpa was shouting 'Faster Johnny, Faster!' to add to the hilarity of that mental image.) There were also times where he was hurt, badly, by the actions of others; when he was eight years old, the school bully put him in an armbar and bonked dad's head against a drinking fountain. He got out of the hospital after 6 weeks, and never regained full function in his right elbow. So, dad spent most of his time reading, as he was practically bedridden in hospital; this was before recombinant factor VIII and IX had been developed, so when he had an internal bleed, the only way to stop it was through a whole plasma transfusion and ice. To be honest, he was very lucky that he never had a bleed into a vital organ, which is what killed most Hemophiliacs before the recombinant vials were developed. The beard, by the by, was grown out shortly after a high-as-a-kite driver T-boned his Ford Falcon; the impact drove his chin through the steering wheel, and he ended up with a scar running from right nostril to halfway below his jawbone. The impact also hosed his left knee so badly that the kneecap had to be removed. Though, he pointed out that, with the kneecap gone, it was flat enough that he could place his coffee cup on the joint without it wobbling. Dad loved farming. He could never do so professionally, because of the accumulation of joint damage over his lifetime, and he was rendered partially deaf because of unshielded PTO shaft whine (which, according to his doctor, was at the same pitch as my mom's voice), but, all the same, he loved being able to work the land and see the crops he had sown grow, and become new life. The second picture shows that rather well; you can feel how proud he is of that corn crop being that tall. (For reference, my Dad was 5'10"; that corn is easily 9 feet tall, and was still growing when that picture was taken.) He was an avid hunter, though he only shot two deer in around 30 years of active hunts. To him, it was mostly an excuse to sit in a tree, wrapped up in a heavy old coat, and let nature take its course around him, which he could appreciate. It was also the only way we could get rid of those godawful super-sticky halloween dark toffees, as he'd grab a handful as a shot of energy while he was waiting out on the hunt. And yes, he always cleaned up after himself once the day was done; no wrappers, no empty casings, etc. It's also how he taught my brothers and I firearm safety; when I was four, he and I went out to the back field, where he used his Moose Gun (a .270 Remington bolt-action, chambered for magnum loads) to shoot a groundhog. We never did find all the pieces above the hind legs. When we got back to the house, while he was cleaning the rifle, he explained why we did that; so I could understand just how powerful guns were, and to never handle one without permission and proper supervision. I'm old enough to be my own supervision and permission, but I took his lessons to heart, and follow all the safety rules he drilled into my head. He was probably the best teacher I could ever have, as he was not afraid to admit when he didn't know something, but he would take his own time and study up on a subject he didn't know about. He loved talking with experts in the field, and learning tricks of the trades, because, even if he could not do the work himself, he was insatiably curious, without ever giving the impression that he felt he was smarter than you. He also had a wickedly dry sense of humour, an infectious laugh, and would cheat to win silly competitions; my little brother tried to get into a staring competition with my Dad once, only to be defeated when dad barked at my brother, causing him to jump backwards. I drat near died laughing. All of this was done while my dad was battling incredible pain. His anklebones had been so badly damaged that they had fused together; he could not 'roll' his feet to compensate for uneven terrain, so he was forced to take slow, almost-dragging steps and place his feet carefully. His left knee was so damaged that it had to be replaced with a prosthetic bone in 1988. Admittedly, the doctors expected the prosthesis to last for 5 years. It lasted 25 before a screw backed out slightly and started scraping the fibrous sheath between bone and calf muscle. Both elbows were also replaced, in 1997 and '98, respectively. And, on top of that, the Red Cross blood scandal of the 80's ended up with him being infected with HIV and HCV. Being told he had 6 months to live did nothing to change his demeanour or outlook, and he turned 6 months into 24 years that I'm proud to say I got to spend with him. My dad passed in 2009, due to complications from liver cancer. He had an incredibly tough life, but cherished every moment he had, made friends easily, and was remembered fondly by everyone around him. I miss him dearly, but I'm thankful I had so much time with him, as there were so many obstacles to even that short amount of time. One of my favourite memories was going fishing with him, from Port Darlington, which has a large warm water outflow from the Pickering Nuclear Facility. The look on his face when I caught a 32-pound salmon that day is something I'll never be able to accurately put into words, but you could Feel how proud he was, not just because I snagged a fish that big, but because he was simply happy to spend time sharing something he loved with me, and saw that enjoyment reflected. Second Story; My earlier post, to be fair, only really scratched the surface of some of the things my dad experienced; He really did have a full life, and, in his own words, cherished every moment he was awake, because, in part, it meant he was thumbing his nose at Death. For example, sure, he had to take 17 pills, twice daily, simply to stay alive, but all that meant for him was maintaining a schedule; Every morning, he'd get up, get dressed, have a bowl of cornflakes, and use the leftover milk to wash down his pills. Look behind him in the first image up there, and you can see the Array of pill bottles. That old cat, by the by, was a bit of a moocher; when Dad first had protease inhibitors added to his pill regime, he changed his schedule to what I mentioned above; until that point in time, he had gotten the pills ready after eating, only to turn around and see the Old Witch nose-deep in his bowl, drinking his milk. He ended up with a glass of water that day. The following morning, he got his pills ready first, and gave her the leftover milk once he had his share to wash the pills down. So, that's pretty much how my dad dealt with the pets; much like unruly children, he'd be patient and allow some behaviour to slide, but he'd adjust and lay down the law when need be. The fact that the cat sat and waited for him to get up from the table also helped their relationship. As a side note, I got the Old witch when I was 4 years old; she had a permanent kink in her tail (door slammed on it in a windstorm), and a scarred eye that she couldn't see out of (flying straw in another storm), but she had 18 years, and around 6 litters of kittens that were distributed to friends and family. She also purred like a car with a missing spark plug, and could open any door that used a latch, inside the house. Dad was never a heavy-set person; his heaviest weight, including that woolen jacket you can see in the above image, was 155 pounds; and, as a side effect of the various pills, he had to deal with lipodistrophy, which effectively skeletonized his face and upper arms; he almost-literally had popeye arms, in that his forearms and hands were normally-proportioned, but his biceps and triceps, while defined, were so slim that I could use one hand to encircle his upper arm. Didn't stop him from slinging around 60-pound haybales like they were nothing, until the late 90's, when his elbows were replaced. (The bones had become so damaged by joint bleeds at that point that the 'head' of the radius and ulna were the thickness of your average pencil) Anyhow, I wanted to share some of the more-interesting stories he had in his life; as he lived through the proper advent of what's now modern rock, he tended to listen and absorb music like a sponge; when 'House of the Rising Sun' became a hit, while he was still living in the Rocky Mountains, he and his brother hiked up the side of the mountain nearest Pentiction, B.C., with a battery-powered radio, which was reasonably expensive kit at the time. with the pair having sat down on a boulder around halfway up the mountain, high enough for clear radio signals, my dad and his brother cycled through eighteen stations, and listened to House of the Rising Sun, from start to finish, 17 times. It's almost like radios back then had nothing to play. When he was 15, he got to visit Vienna with his family.. In that time, he purchased a gallon jug of good wine, and, in his own words, 'Met a great many interesting people at the various consulates, shared drinks with several, and was exposed to culture and history that left a deep and abiding interest in histories of the world' He still managed to finish the wine, to boot. He also ended up with Scurvy when he was going to university. As a rule of thumb, if your food budget is 2$ a day, even before 1970, you simply won't get enough fruits and vegetables in your system to keep you hale and hearty. To be fair, he also got married both times he went to university, which is the reason my (half-)sister is 13 years my senior. Interesting story about her, too; Dad fought, and won custody of my sister because her mother was, well, very heavy into the 'alternative lifestyle' choices of the 70's (drugs, partying, holistic medicine, etc.), and the court ruled in his favour as my sister had been rendered dreadfully ill by her mother's neglect. However, my dad, at the time, couldn't care for his daughter, as he was newly-divorced, and in rather dire financial and emotional straits; so, he proposed to the court that, if she assented, his mother could care for his daughter. And that's the story of how my sister is also my aunt; she was adopted by my grandmother. As an addendum, my sister read this, and corrected me on a few errors I had made: quote:Louise left John when she was pregnant with me. He found out about me when she went into Labour. After I was born he tried to get us back but Louise with her own screwed up view refused. John petitioned for access, Louise never honoured it and always told him I was napping and couldn't be disturbed. Eventually he went off to university to get some distance from the Louise situation. Louise around that time had a terrible two and couldn't handle dealing with a child that was no longer a dress up doll. She asked John's parents to watch me for a week while she 'soul searched". The end result was she chose to give me up for adoption. As John was my legal parent he had further right to custody. But children's aid had to find him. They contacted mom and dad who refused to disclose where he was until they knew why. They also offered at that time to adopt me if John wouldn't take custody. He didn't know what to do with a daughter he never knew so he accepted mom and dad's offer. A more-recent story, also related to music, was probably the only time my dad blew his stack at someone, and the reason why he deeply loathes the song 'Hotel California'. While he was again at university, some years after the first run, one of the tenants in the rooming house he lived in would stay up all day and night, higher than a kite, with that song on repeat, on maximum volume, such that you could hear it at the opposite end of the building. Through headphones. Now imagine trying to get some sleep at 2 AM when the refrain starts and you can hear Every. Single. Word. Like it's being shouted into your ear. The day that tenant moved out was probably the happiest day of that boarding house's life. Third Story; Honestly, I find it hard to articulate all of the things my Dad did, in part because he was a masterful storyteller in his own way, and, while he was not prone to exaggeration, his dry humour ensured that you would often find yourself chuckling at his antics. For all that he was physically infirm for many years, that never stopped him from getting into, and creating, all sorts of shenanigans. As we begin to turn towards the winter months, however, I'm reminded of the story he told of moving into the farm that I've spent my life at. My parents bought what was a run-down century-old doctor's office/house, with, as my dad would later claim "Cracks in the walls so large you could stick your hand outside through them." Naturally, they moved in on December 1st. To be fair, that year had been unseasonably warm, with everyone involved in the move wearing T-shirts and light pants at the start of the day, but, by the time the sun had gone down, a full-scale blizzard, howling wind included, had settled in, ensuring a properly uncomfortable first night. My uncle-by-friendship, one of my dad's best friends, had gone out to get some take-out dinner for everyone at the house, and, when he arrived back at the farmhouse, his first words were "Open the Fridge, I have to get Warm." Dad, as revenge, put my uncle's boots in the oven at 175 Farenheit for three hours, so they were unwearably hot for the following morning. My dad's excuse? "You complained about your feet being cold all night." Now, it did take a lot of effort and work to get the old farm up and running, but my dad managed to do so. I have a picture of him somewhere, with him wearing a T-shirt proudly emblazoned 'Cosmic Farmer', which really was the only way to describe him. On the bright side, the farm came with a quartet of Pets; the old one-eyed collie, Chief, who would stay out of reach if you were carrying anything, but loved being scratched behind the ears, and would ravenously devour any groundhog he could catch. Schlingel, a beautiful, ink-black barn cat with the looks of a Panther and the morals of an Alley Cat. My dad kicked Schlingel out of the house in perpetuity after the little bastard peed in his stereo amplifier while he was listening to a first-run LP of The Wall. (Schlingel got revenge by sneaking in through the summer kitchen and peeing in my Dad's cast-iron Frying pan while dad was at work. He stopped leaving the pan out, and stopped making eggs at night after that.) Butch was a brown and grey tortiseshell that makes Butterscotch look tiny; Butch was 25 pounds of ~solid~ muscle; he routinely killed beavers, and had outright fangs, reaching half an inch beyond his jawline. On more than one occasion Dad would find Butch crawling out from under the foundation of the chicken coop, dragging a foot-long rat with him, and looking as smug as possible. Butch also had never experienced a christmas tree, and tried to climb up the first one my parents had bought. Good thing the decorations hadn't been put on at that point, because, well, Physics. Butch wasn't hurt, but he learned not to climb small trees. And, finally, There was Marlow. She was a short-haired piebald barn cat, mostly white with brown and black splotches, and she was affectionate, unless she was pregnant. Soon as Marlow would get knocked up, she would become aloof, grumpy, and, most-memorably, decided to get revenge on my dad for paying attention to a neighbour who he was chatting with, instead of her. So, instead of meowing, or pawing at him like most cats do, Marlow turned, lifted her tail, and soaked my dad's business suit from knees to ankles. The following day, Marlow gave birth to four kittens, one smoke-grey and three pure white. So, naturally, my Dad called the kittens 'Martha and the Maggots'. So, I guess he had the last laugh that day. He could never stay mad at the pets, even when they did stuff that drove him nuts. Probably what made him a great parent; he let the dumb stuff slide, and had inventive punishments for when we actually deserved it, such as in the upcoming story. Fourth Story; Next up in stories about my dad, the time he made his own beer, and what he did when my older brother got drunk off his tits for the first time ever. As mentioned before in my various storytimes regarding my Father, he was multidisciplinary, and often self-taught (He did get his bachelor's in Computer Programming back in the late 70's, and spent 20-odd years working for the Government of Canada, mind.) This combination of wickedly sharp intelligence, patience, and curiosity would invariably end up with some wild-rear end scheme of 'I wonder what would happen if I did this', which, in 1984, culminated with him making a full-scale single-person brewing attempt. While my dad preferred India Pale Ales as his brew of choice, he had a soft spot for red ales, which he tried to emulate as best he could; however, he forgot one important factor; adding sugar to the fermentation process increases the eventual output of alcohol in the drink, and, in his own words, 'Whenever it stopped bubbling, I'd add a handful of sugar'. By the time he got around to bottling it, in half-litre bottles at that, the beer was a deep, smoky red and, according to my dad, 'Around 18% alcohol'. As a comparison, your typical wine is roughly 20%, and you don't drink a half-litre bottle in one go. So, of course, Dad nicknamed it 'Horribrau' and shared it with his friends and extended family. One friend, aptly nicknamed 'Dennis the Menace' came to visit that winter, and, not heeding my Dad's warnings of the potency of the drink, knocked back a full bottle in less than half an hour. He then got lost in the front field because it had snowed, and erased the tracks of his snowmobile. Dad had to walk out there and drive Dennis back to the farm so the poor guy could sleep the worst of it off on the couch. Dad did the same with my Opa, who, being very much a traditional German, liked driving around with my Oma as the passenger; it took 5 minutes for Opa to pull over and ask Oma to drive the 800 kilometres home after Opa had knocked back one of the monster beers. Oma, for her part, still laughs about it today. My Mom then used certain components of the brewing equipment to store tulip bulbs in over winter; she claims innocence, but Dad joked that Opa had asked her to sabotage his stuff. As for the time my older brother got utterly lit, well, he was 14, it was December 1st '96, and his best friend had swiped 3 bottles of "Green" wine from his parents' own still. The wine was all of two days in the bottle. So, my brother drank two and a half bottles of immature wine and chased it with a half-dozen tangerines. He was then violently sick, for obvious reasons. One hospital stay later, and my Dad got to sit down at the kitchen table, and tell both my brother and his best friend that they had just been voluntold to paint the local fire station's floor. He also made mention that he had offered my brother's services to clean a 'Vomit Comet' Ambulance, but the hospital declined for liability reasons. Though, the threat did keep my brother out of trouble for a time. My brother did such a half-assed job on painting the fire station's floor that he had to go back twice to re-do it properly. He was also grounded for forever. (We still joke that he's grounded, despite him being 34) Now, these four stories popped up in the old thread in a span reaching from mid-april to late november of last year. If you guys would like to add more stories, please do.
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Mar 25, 2016 16:49
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| # ? Apr 25, 2024 12:20 |
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I'm sorry to hear about his passing. I do so love that kitty picture. I also love the idea of a dad thread, although most of mine are pretty silly. Let's see. My dad was born in 1945, and mostly grew up in Miami, with no money. He used to pick people's fruit out of their front yard and sell it back to them. He had a pet turtle, which died in a week, and so he went and found another one, and so on, until there was a sizable turtle graveyard in the backyard and Ma made him stop. He went back to Montreal after the navy, got married, got divorced, then started working in a coffee shop while taking some classes at Concordia. To save money on cigarettes, he started stealing them from an acquaintance's locker, who turned out to be my mother. Over the years, my father worked as a school bus driver, a library clerk and a driving instructor before retiring very early and now lives with my mom in the mountains where he spends all his time reading about boats he thinks are neat and eating fruit snacks.
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Mar 25, 2016 17:20
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My dad was born in Texas and is the son of a WWII Air Force General. He was a natural athlete and, had there been a prom king concept in the UK where he spent his teenage years, he would have been one no contest. Also, shockingly nice and sensible guy. (I PROBABLY HAVE THE ORDER OF THE FOLLOWING DETAILS WRONG - SORRY ABOUT THAT) After high school he moved back to Tennessee to study geology, the art of growing high-grade pot, and getting laid. He got involved with a married woman with a daughter (the woman wasn't much older than him - it was the 70's) and then took a season trip to Alaska for on the job training. He had a couple of girlfriends there and headed back to Tennessee to find that married woman was pregnant. Awww poo poo. Married woman immediately divorced her husband and took the daughter with her. Just then, one of those girls he was banging in Alaska drops the word that SHE has a bun in the oven, too. Welp, dad sure was in a tough spot. He may be a promiscuous idiot, but he's no dead beat sociopath. He insisted on being the responsible adult and take care of both kids. So he took the married woman + other guy's kid and hauls them to Seattle, where the girlfriend is. Both women give birth. He married the original affair lady and helps raise the previous marriage's kid. He gets a good job with geology and grows loads of pot, making lots of friends with the local hippies and students. After around 8 months, tragedy struck. The wife's daughter dies suddenly of SIDS (I think). In her grief, wife adopts the affair baby. Affair baby's mom is apparently very relieved by this and disappears into the ether, showing no interest in keeping touch. (Gotta go to work, guys. I'll finish in a bit). Mr.Chill has a new favorite as of 22:43 on Mar 25, 2016 |
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Mar 25, 2016 22:40
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My dad played a pretty good trick on me one Christmas eve. My family normally does presents on Christmas eve as we would go visit other family on Christmas day. The task of distributing presents from under the tree fell to me, being the "youngest" at around 25 at the time. Most of them went to their recipients no problem, and I was almost done when I tried to move one of mine to my pile. It was small and I am big, so I didn't expect there would be a problem. It was trapezoidal and the small dimension was on the floor, so I got a good grip on it. I grabbed it, and moved toward my pile. The present didn't, so I fell down. I tried to move it again, but failed. I assumed Dad had attached it to the floor or some other such trick, because seriously what the gently caress. Dad suggested I try harder, and I did get it to move by lift/scooting. When I unwrapped it, it was a plain cardboard box. After I tore the box apart (There wasn't an obvious way to open it), inside there was an anvil. A 100~lb anvil. Dad said that seeing me fall on my rear end was worth the hassle of carrying it downstairs (they weren't finished putting in the hardwood floors upstairs) and wrapping it himself. Mom had no idea he got this for me, but was very clear about not dropping it on the new flooring when I left with it, and also that I would not be leaving without it. I bear-hug carried it upstairs and was thankful I drove the truck that day. The anvil is on an even heavier cast iron table in my garage, and I've actually used it for anvil-related things.
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Apr 7, 2016 19:58
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I grew up on a farm with my father, mother, and grandparents. My dad constantly taught me to operate equipment by just saying "here, have at it". He taught me to drive a combine by giving me the wheel and then jumping off with it in gear and running. All he said was, keep the windrow in the center of the header. He never even showed me which of the pedals was the clutch or brake (there were 6 pedals). He taught me how to operate a swather by setting me on his lap (way too young too reach the pedals) and pointing the machine at the fuel tanks in the yard. I had a hell of a time dodging them as the steering was hydrostatic and I couldn't find the center without self-centering steering like a normal vehicle. He never looked up from his newspaper. He taught me to drive a tractor before I could reach the pedals. I had to climb down off the seat to use the clutch and then, once I was moving, climb back up. The first time I let the clutch out, he nearly fell backwards into the cultivator. Again, no instruction. Just, drive it. Many times I had to sit in the combine with my hand on the header clutch just in case he fell in while he shoveled chaff through it for a second pass to get better yields (we grew certified grass seed). I always remember knowing that the header takes about 10 seconds to stop. There's no brake. As such, if he were to fall, first the spikey part would pull him into the auger part, which would slice him up good and move him into the crushey smashy part. By then, the header should stop so we could bury his rear end and legs in the ground as the front half of him would be ground into paste. A lot of stress to lay on a 9 year old. I don't regret it or resent him. It made me self-sufficient. I always like to let people do as much as they can by themselves so they learn more quickly. It's faster and better, just more stressful.
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Apr 9, 2016 20:14
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My dad went to college in Portland, Maine, back in the 1980s when you didn't need a passport to go to Canada or Mexico. So every once in a while he and some friends would drive up to Canada. One weekend, they're approaching the border and they realize there's a Dutch guy in the backseat, and he doesn't have his passport. They're not gonna turn around, so what can they do? My dad decides to just tell the guy to sit still and not say anything while they go through the checkpoint. Hopefully the border guards will just assume he's American like everyone else in the car. It worked, and that's the story of how my dad "smuggled" a guy across the Canadian border.
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Apr 10, 2016 03:20
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