Glimpse

Growing up for me, I'll be honest, wasn't the worst experience in the world, but it wasn't the greatest either.  My father was a raging alcoholic and it was difficult, even at our best, to live up to his expectations, and he was more than willing to share his disdain with you, sometimes emphasizing his words with a closed fist.  Granted, there were worse off families in the world and despite his frailties, I still had four walls around me, a roof over my head and three square meals a day.

That withstanding, as I kid, I still resented him at times.  Cherishing the days of lucidity, when it was a pure joy and honour to share time with my dad.  An emotion that I could, literally, feel wash away from my face when we'd stop at the liquor store before returning home.  The hours that followed would feel like a pressure cooker, us wondering how many drinks it would take, this time, before his proverbial axe-head would fly off the handle, sending us all into hiding.

Years later, medical issues would force my father to face his addiction and set aside the bottle.  After that, was pure bliss.  While we had our differences prior to that time, I accepted the situation for what it was.  I've always referred to it as Jeckyll & Hyde Syndrome.  The sober father (Dr. Jeckyll) was always a wonderful person to be around.  He'd laugh and tell stories and I'd hang on every word he spoke.  The drunk father (Mr. Hyde) was pure horror.  It was like walking on glass.  You never knew if you were going to survive with only a couple of cracks or if you would just go crashing through the floor.  After being on the receiving end of a few violent beatings, I was always trepidacious in my encounters.  However, when he finally sobered up, there was no fear.  I could walk into any room, whether he was in a good mood or grumpy, and have no fear of repercussions.  Mr. Hyde was no more and Dr. Jeckyll was there to stay.

Sadly, my time with the sober father never lasted very long.  Less than a decade before cancer would strike and take my father away from us at just fifty-four years of age, and I've felt a huge void in my life ever since.  I wonder, sometimes, if my life would be as fucked up as it is, today, if he had lived on into his sixties and seventies.  Would I have strove to be a better person rather than settling for whoever I am today?  My mother and sister have always viewed me as being worthless and likely never to amount to much and as much as I disagree with those sentiments, I can't help but feel that I fell right into that mold.

It's been more than a decade since my father's passing and still I miss him.  I miss the fact that I could see something or wonder about something and go for a visit and just sit and chat.  We used to play card games and just laugh at one another's stories.  Even though I'd heard them thousands of times, I loved hearing his stories about his childhood.  One goal that I always had and regretfully failed to follow through with, was going back to his childhood home and just wander the roads and hillsides, laying eyes on all the historical sites where these childhood events took place.  Like the "Grouchy Bob" house or the bridge that nearly got burned down due to childhood negligence.  He's survived by his three older brothers, but I doubt that they'd share the same nostalgia for his stories.

The last day I spent with my dad was a holiday Monday, May 25th, 1999.  I remember it vividly, because I'd attended a WWF Pay-Per-View the night before in which Owen Hart had tragically died.  I mentioned the bad news to my dad that day and the news was met with genuine sorrow.  He wasn't a fan of professional wrestling, but was well aware of Owen's infamous father, Stu Hart of the legendary Stampede Wrestling.  I don't know if it was with that familiarity or the fact that he (my dad) was facing death everyday, that he extended his condolences to me and to the Hart family.  His words were sweet and I've often reflected on that day with great reverence.  My only regret was that a friend had called and invited me to his house that evening, and like a fucking heel, I left my father to go hang out with a friend, who ultimately ditched my ass, anyway.  Three days later, my dad was dead.

I look back at his final days and I wonder what I could have done differently.  Not much, I'm sure.  He was very sick, growing more and more weaker with every passing day.  He became so frail that he could no longer stand or walk, opting to sleep in his recliner for the last few weeks of his life.  My mom still has that chair in her house and it would take me more than ten years before I would sit in the chair.  Not out of some kind morbid idea, but it was something else.  It was like I could still see him sitting in the chair.  I've since sat in the chair, if for no other reason than to feel closer to my late father.

The movie "Field of Dreams" is probably my most favourite movie in the history of movies.  It's not because of the baseball overtones, but for the fact that an adult Ray Kinsella gets to spend a few more minutes with the father he hardly knew.  Just a few minutes of simply playing catch with his dad.  No need for words, just enjoying each other's company.  Just reflecting on that scene has me fighting back the tears and failing miserably.

My father could be a real bastard, sometimes.  The alcohol unleashing a true monster in every facet of the word, but my dad...  The real man who would fight off his demons and become the wonderful man he always could be, is the man that I miss everyday.  If we had just a few more minutes together, I wonder what we'd talk about.  The weather?  Would I have the balls to tell him what he truly meant to me in life?  I don't know.  I can't answer that question, but I'd settle for a simple game of catch. 

Smoke & Mirrors - Chapter One: Dr. Jeckyll & Mr. Hyde

I was born into humble beginnings, growing up on a farm just west of the city.  I've written in the past that the farm was quite literally on the city limits of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, although when I was a tyke, the city seemed farther away.  Today, the city is practically on our doorstep, though no one has lived on the premises for over a decade.  Recently, I drove a friend out to show them a piece of my history, and I was astonished and even a little bit horrified at the sight I saw.  A decade of neglect has allowed the trees and shrubbery to grow over the lane way that leads into the yard.  We sold the property, my sister and I, a little over eight years ago, and I had only assumed that the new owners would've had someone care for the land.  It was, admittedly, a little heart-wrenching.

Being a kid plagued with a lot of allergies, it broke my father's heart when I couldn't follow in his footsteps and become a farmer like him, and his father before him and his granddad before him.  Many generation of farmers will cease to exist, because of me.  I'm not sure if my cousins partake in the livelihood, but it comes to mind that they do not.

In addition to farming, my dad also worked as a heavy duty mechanic in a number of mines, including a gold mine up north, but he concluded his career at the Allan Potash Mine, in Allan, Saskatchewan.  My dad was diagnosed with two types of cancer when he'd gone into the hospital to complain of low-energy.  He was not the type who would seek medical attention unless he felt it was serious.  It was serious and it was caught way too late, and a few months later, at the age of just 54, my dad was dead.

Just writing those words makes me want to break out in tears.  My dad was a good man.  He was a great man.  .... He was the best man, ever.   When he was sober.  When he was drunk, it was a completely different story.  When he was drunk, you did not want to be anywhere near him.  You wouldn't want to be in the same city or plain of reality.  At the time, I thought of him as a monster.  In the years since, I've identified it as "Jeckyll & Hyde Syndrome".   When he was sober, he was "Dr. Jeckyll".  A free-spirited man, with love and happiness in his heart, generous to a fault, but when he was drunk, ie. "Mr. Hyde", he was a real son-of-a-bitch.  He was a monster.., truly.  He was angry.  He was violent. And like I said, you did not want to be around him, at all.

As a young fellow, I was not immune to his anger.  Many times I found myself on the wrong end of a swinging fist or two.  A couple of times I was tossed up against the wall, his grip tightly wound around my neck and told that I wasn't worth the bullet it would take to blow me to hell.  I was a little insulted as the cost of a .22 shell in those days, were literally pennies on the dollar.  An aptly placed .22 shell can bounce around the cranium and tear up the brain quite efficiently, unless my mafia movies have lead me astray.  But the one incident that weighs the most heavily on me and continued to do so for a number of years, likely because I would identify the occasion on it's anniversary every year, was what occurred just three days prior to my seventeenth birthday on November 26th at 7:02pm.

My sister and I had been arguing before my dad had gotten home.  My mom had left, attending a union meeting in the city, so we were at home when my dad arrived.  He was already three sheets to the wind.  My sister was in her room and I was in mine.  I don't know what exactly the conversation was between my sister and my dad, but at 7:02pm, while seated on my bed, I heard a light knock on my door, followed by a soft spoken request to come in.  I said yes, and my dad slowly stepped into the room.  Suddenly, in a burst of energy, he lunged at me.  The room grew dark, his eyes glowing sharply, as he drew down on me, grabbing me with his left and pummeling me with his right.  He got two hits in, before I broke free, going for a baseball bat leaning in the corner, but he grabbed a hold of me, throwing me back on the bed and proceeding to hit me few more times before nearly breaking my arm.  Then suddenly, the frenzy ended as quickly as it had begun.  Calmly he picked me up off the bed and led me into the bathroom, where he proceeded to explain to me about respect, for him and my sister, all the while I was cleaning the blood from my face.

In the end, I had a bruised clavicle, three or four broken teeth, my earring was ripped (backwards) through my ear, and my nose was smashed.  I sat at the table for an hour or two, listening to how it hurt him more to have to teach me this lesson than it did me for receiving said lesson.  My mom eventually came home, and was instructed to take me to the hospital.  That's where a doctor twisted my nose back into place, making it appear more presentable, although I wish closer attention was given to it, as it never healed properly and eventually gave me a lot of headaches in the years that followed.

Today, the nose barely gives me any grief, although during really cold weather, it does hurt some.  Not to mention if I so much as bump it the wrong way or someone jokingly plays that "I got your nose" game that people play with small children, that motherf*cker will bleed uncontrollably.  Some have told me, since, that I should get it re-broke and set correctly, but ask anyone who's actually had that procedure done, and it's no picnic.  I'd rather live with the discomfort and the possibility that I might piss someone off and have them break my nose instead.  It'd make for a better story.

Now....  I've painted a very grim picture of my father.  Something that I've shared with very few people.  Hell, even my family, don't know the intimate details of the violence that commenced that night.  They don't read my blog.  They don't have Facebook or Twitter.  Unless a family member who does have either of these social media outlets, reads these words, I'm sure the images will die with me.

My dad was a good man.  He would eventually sober up, putting his days of drunkenness behind him.  I remember on his one year anniversary of sobriety.  We were driving when he informed me that, "today is my one year anniversary of being sober."  I congratulated him and asked how he felt.

"I don't feel any different now than when I was drinking." he muttered, to which I quickly replied, "Then I guess there's really no point in drinking anymore, then."   He paused for a moment, visibly thinking about the words I'd just spoken, then realized, "No.  I guess not."

When my dad was drinking, there were many many opportunities where he could have and probably should have died as a result of his being drunk.  He survived every single one, without so much as a scratch.  After a few (beautiful) years of sobriety, he learned he had cancer and died.

Those decades of drunkenness never affected me in the negative way that people would suspect.  I'm sure there are people (albeit probably only two, maybe three) who will read about my dad and believe otherwise, but truly believe me.  His drinking never affected me, mentally, in the long run.  It was his sobriety that would eventually teach me that I should try new things.  He did new things, learned new skills and traveled to places he likely never would have attempted all the years he hid in those bottle of booze.  That's what I take from my dad.

And in retrospect, different people deal with mental disorders and depression in different ways.  Who's to say that my dad didn't suffer from some form of depression which he suppressed through alcohol?  It's possible.  Like I stated, unless he was feeling really terrible, he never sought medical attention.  I doubt feeling sad would have sufficed in the seeking of aid.