Dad; Hillbilly Angel
My dad.
Oh my gosh.
This man is truly hard to explain.
He is a hilarious, dancing, functionally illiterate hillbilly. He’s got one tooth, 18 defunct cars on his lawn, stacks of news papers from 1979 AND the biggest heart you’ve ever encountered.
He is in his late 60’s, which is a miracle (don’t tell him I told you his age, he is one of those ‘perpetually 29 people'). I have seen this man flip a tractor, shoot a shotgun while standing on a ladder 40 feet in the air inside a building, use a chainsaw on a ladder while reaching over his head, hit his head on a board with a nail sticking out of it and I’ve seen him cut off a piece of his finger. He has ran me over with a snow blower, had my brother (2 at the time) on a roof 40 feet up and has accidentally killed several barn cats with the hay bailer. He is not a model of safety, let’s just say.
He is the single most reckless AND the single luckiest person I have ever met.
He loves my son dearly and isn’t allowed to babysit, due to that lengthly list above.
There are so many truly fantastic stories I could tell about my dad. I have two favourites.
Story 1
At age 21 I was quite brutally raped. It was a truly horrific experience that shaped many of my years afterwards. It still lives within my body in some ways.
At the time, I told very few people in my life about it. Probably only 2 of my most trusted humans.
I find that men typically respond badly to this type of disclosure. Every partner I’ve told has responded with anger or righteous indignation, which centres him (or the not me) in the middle of my very important story.
I had never thought of telling my dad. I just didn’t think it would be helpful for either of us. But, it came organically one day as we talked about the politics of women and of sexual assault really generally. We were half a kilometre from his driveways and I drove it made sense to say “Dad, you know, I’ve been raped.” I held onto the steering wheel with all of my might and stared straight ahead at the road while I waited for his response, which was the single most validating response I had received in the many years since it had happened.
He was quiet for a while and then he said, “Oh, God, Tiff. I am so sorry.”
The silence and the simplicity were all my spirit needed to hold that important disclosure.
Story 2
This story comes on the heels of a different and awful story I will have to detail at some other time.
I was 15, my sister 13 and my brother 9. My mom was drunk and high on over the counter drugs.
It was a pivotal moment where she was contemplating treatment for the first time. Of course, it was also at the same time that my dad was to pick us up to go for a very long awaited and expensive trip to Ottawa.
When my dad arrived we were in shambles. I said ‘I have to stay’ and encouraged my younger siblings to go without me and enjoy the trip. Reluctantly, they went. My dad was so clearly heartbroken, but I think less because of the trip and more because he got a rare glimpse into his children’s sad and adult other life.
As my mom slept off some of the loose upstairs at my grandparents house and we contemplated treatment options,* my dad’s black Buick Regal came into the driveway. My brother and sister silently filed into the house. My dad hugged me and stated simply “we’ll go another time.” He seemed to know and understand the importance and weightiness of the situation. It turned out to be one of those somber vigils. A sacred quiet while all present prayed for health and for healing. I was grateful that my dad understood the task in front of us and I know he held the vigil somewhere else on his own.
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*Yes, that’s right. I was contemplating treatment options with my grandparents at age 15. A truly inappropriate thing for a 15 year old to be involved in. I’ll write elsewhere about parentification.
