On the Anniversary of the Day After, My Dad’s Last Day
My last eight years as a father have rushed by in the blink of an eye. I can barely keep pace. Each annum, it feels like the cadence is the same, but we’ve shifted to a smaller cog on the corncob-cassette of life. This one really does go to 11. Click, tweenager. Pedal harder to crank the same rotations, but now we’re going even faster. The same eight years as a son have been more muddled. Spinning the granniest gear on smooth, flat ground. Going nowhere slowly. It feels like there should be more to push into.
To borrow from four years ago: Yesterday was the anniversary of my dad’s last day. February 21st, 2018. Usually, I do something to mark the occasion. Pour one out, tie one on, {both}, write something public or private. This year’s morn in memorium started with a trip to the hockey rink for The Clairebarian’s practice. Fitting. Pops never saw Claire skate in person, but he always enjoyed videos of her early exploits. And he loved laughing at me about how eagerly, joyously, she wanted to play hockey. Her dream, his dream, not my dream.
Yesterday. Typically when my brother, Crash Test Kevin, and I ride mountain bikes, we’re pushing pedals by 7am in the morning. Latest. An hour after that if Claire is coming along. Maybe two hours later for a larger family affair with our younger brother, Claire’s “Uncle Tiny Steve”, and his groms. But that’s a special-special occasion. Needless to say, only on a day like dad’s last day would CTK be pulling up to chez MEAT at 10am. Looking hungry like a man who refuses to eat anything more than a banana before bicycles.
I lift my BMXC bike onto his old North Shore Rack. I always think about it, because the old rack tines fit rigid forks better than the new ones do. Yes, I know, I could bend one of the mounting points on my newer model, but it’s a curiosity not a complaint. Complaints? Buddy still hasn’t replaced his blown-out bungy cord. Yes, I know, it still does the job of stopping the front wheels from spinning while we drive. At this point I’m almost positive he keeps the stretched out piece of crap hanging there because he knows that it bugs me. Replace ‘knows’ with ‘relishes’. I wouldn’t even put it past him to have a perfectly good one stashed in his car that he uses every time he’s not riding with me. Siblings, some things never change*.
It’s going to be a relatively short ride, followed by a quick coffee {or hot chocolate}, because the old boy has to rush home for his proper afternoon nap. I shit you not. He even has a fancy chair for napping in just like our pops did. Actually, of the three of us, he reminds me the most of dad. “Number one sons born second” as Kevin would say. I look at him. “Where do you want to ride?” He shrugs. Doesn’t care. Typical. I nod. “Let’s go find some snow.“
*{He also puts his four-way blinkers on when he drops me off or picks me up, even though he’s in a legit parking space. Apparently this is part of “blending in” when one is driving in North Vancouver. I pretend it isn’t annoying. He knows I’m pretending.}
The snow we do find is truly magical*. First tracks on some sticky stuff that actually provides an incredible amount of traction climbing and descending. You know, aside from the times when it doesn’t. Plus some lightly hidden iced-over rock formations, unforgiving roots, and so forth. Hard work, up and down. Physically and mentally. Great fun. Refreshingly cold air and almost-frozen water in our bottles. Delicious. Just the right amount of laughter.
On the pedal & push up, both times, we chat about the goings on of a number of dad’s old work colleagues who we both know. Kevin on an actual personal level. Me from a combination of stories, chance encounters, the odd brief handshake, and in a couple of cases drinking pre-dawn Crown & Gingers. Some folks retired or retiring, others unwilling to surrender the trappings of whatever office they’ve attained. People my age who pops mentored who are hitting their stride.
One fellow in particular who doesn’t like to golf in the rain has us chuckling. Can you imagine? It’s called a jacket. No bad weather just bad gear. Or, attitude. Somewhere I have a photo of my brothers and I lined up against a fence, covered head-to-toe in mud, preparing to be hosed down. I don’t remember all that much about being a kid, but I vividly recall my dad having a hard time standing up he was laughing at us so hard as my mom aimed the hose.
After the second lap I try to cajole CTK into hiking up just a wee ways to hit another trail. He gives me the same ‘special’ look that I’ve been receiving for over forty years. It says: “I’ve been here before, with you, you know?” It’s well earned. When we were little my folks used to send me on errands down into our deep, dark basement just for the amusement of watching me try and convince Kev to come with me. I only know that from years upon years of them retelling the tales. Parents, some things never change.
*{It also had a mystically seamless transition from perfect snow to perfect dirt.}
Today. My mom, Gramma, and I watched Claire play hockey. We chuckled about Kevin’s chaise deluxe. She used to call my dad’s “I’m just resting” roost his ‘Lamborghini chair.’ I’m going to try it out on CTK when I see him next, if it bugs him enough I’ll keep calling it that but if not I’m certain I can come up with something better. My grom had her typical giant hockey smile – before, during, and after a close loss – and I was certainly thinking about dad in the moment.
Pedal harder or pedal faster. Sometimes when you just have the one gear only the latter will do. Acts of remembrance and all that. Claire and I talked about Grandpa a bunch. We looked at some old photos from when she was truly little. Those times making pizzas when the two of them were too full from snacking on toppings to actually eat the final, barren, product. Laying on the floor playing trains. Taking the Seabus and Skytrain to meet for a meal at Bodega on Main St. All a bit disjointed perhaps. But it is what it is on the anniversary of the day after, my dad’s last day.