A Man of Vision

One story about my father would not be enough. He has not been the same person, even in the short time that I have lived. Even before my time, my father was constantly evolving. So I will summarize the best I can, the story of my father's ambition.

He was the middle child in a family of 15 children. A brother born special, he went to his first funeral when he was 7, with only 13 siblings. As the years went on, he was beaten for his poor vision, a genetic condition he was saddled with from birth. With every beating, with every incident, his vision of the world became more clouded.

More ridicule was experienced at school until he had completed the sixth grade. The ridicule didn't stop, really, my grandfather just decided that he had been adequately educated for what my father would do with his life, so he pulled him from his classes. From then on, my father worked on the farm, and nothing else.

Surgery was something he also experienced at a young age, as well as back-breaking work, and a hungry belly that ate at his small stature. When he was 13 years old, his family moved to Northern Alberta and decided to build a new farm. The house, the barn, the shop. My grandfather, uncles and dad pieced every single thing together themselves. Now at the age to wed (17 years old) it was time to find a wife.

Vanderhoof was 12 hours from the small establishment of La Crete, but my father travelled all that way for a specific purpose. He was going to find himself a life partner. Once he did, nothing stopped them from becoming their own family. At the baby age of 18, my father was now a new husband. Pictures of their wedding day showed him with a somber face, my mother dressed in black beside him.

I asked him, "Aren't weddings supposed to be happy? You don't look very happy to be getting married."

After tossing a few teasing jokes at my mother from the living room couch, my father explained to me that, the night before, he'd been working at the sawmill when his jacket got caught on a piece of equipment. He was wrenched onto the conveyor belt violently. Escorted to the hospital by ambulance, he asked how long this was going to put him out of commission. After all, he had to get married tomorrow.

The doctor laughed and told him he was not. His hand was stitched up, his arm and shoulder pushed back into place, the doctor insisted on an overnight stay. My father agreed to that, but only if he could leave in the morning for the church. Exasperated, the doctor agreed. And gave him lots of pain meds.

In conclusion, my father said that it's a possibility that the wedding never really happened, after all, he had been high the entire time.

Appalled, my mother defended that, since they had pictures, it was all completely legitimate. And, of course, he's signed the marriage certificate, high or not. He smirked at her, eyes sparkling in their mischievous way, and continued to try and defend his position that, really, she had just taken advantage of him. My mother scoffed and chuckled at his teasing, but he grew quiet when I pointed out that, even if she had, he'd had 45 years to leave and he chose to stay.

It took my father nearly 18 years to tell me that he loved me. He'd never heard it from his parents or siblings. It just wasn't something that was said to family members. To this day, I haven't heard him say it to my mother either. Not with the kids around.

But my father is an ambitious man, I've told you.

Despite his past, despite being raised in a rather cold manner, he decided to raise his children differently. His love was expressed through family activities and lessons on the farm. Teaching us how to maintain a tractor, drive it, take care of animals. As we grew, so did he. We got calls on our birthdays, gifts. As we each grew into our own families, his love grew. He evolved from a husband, to a father, to a grandfather. He taught his grandkids how to maintain a tractor, drive it. We watched happily as each new addition to the family discovered the warm heart under their grandpa's dark, cloudy eyes. The tender smile beneath his salt and pepper beard.

Even now, he has yet again evolved to a great-grandfather. The next generation is learning to love tomatoes and watching as he cooks the whole family chili on campouts. We've tripled in numbers, and with each passing day I can see my father soften. Now, he has told me he loves me numerous times. He has apologized to me, he has forgiven me. He's understood my decisions, even if he didn't agree with me. Tears were shed on a few occasions on my behalf. My graduation, his 60th birthday (when I gave him a card) and my wedding day.

He talks to his family openly about his father, about the treatment he received. Admitting that his hesitance was to preserve his memory, after all, we had loved our grandfather as well. Plans are being made for trips with each of the children and their spouses. He's made it so clear that he wants to get to know his kids better, especially now. My father also discusses his poor eyesight openly, no longer pretending he can see better than he actually can. Allowing my mother to drive him. Requesting a better view. And with each new discovery and challenge in our family, I am reminded again of how ambitious my father is.

So completely determined to continue to learn to love better, to continue to teach us even now. I don't know where any of us would be without him.

He pulled my mother closer and smiled.

"Hopefully 45 years more."