Thank you Dad

Last Word

ISABELLE SOUTHCOTT

“Isabelle, I’d like to have a word with you in my study,” said my father, as I got up to leave the dinner table.

My heart began to race as I envisioned what I was in for trouble for this time. Was it the fight I’d had with my younger brother Russell that ended with me dumping the entire box of cereal over his head? Was it because I’d been so defiant in my Home Economics class and tied my hair up in 25 little pony-tails to keep it out of my face while cooking instead of wearing a hair net? Or had he found out something else he wasn’t supposed to find out about?

I took a deep breath to steady myself.

Growing up as the middle child in a family of three in Halifax in the 1970s wasn’t easy. At least it wasn’t for me. My older sister never got in trouble even though she broke more rules than I ever did. When I asked Dad about this, he thoughtfully drew on his pipe and replied, “Yes, but Francesca never got caught.”

And my younger brother, well he was the baby of the family and the only boy, so of course he was the favourite. It really wasn’t fair.

The third stair squeaked as I made my way to Dad’s study in the basement. He didn’t even glance up from his desk as he worked through the monthly pile of bills, writing cheques for this one and that one, before putting them in an envelope. I drew a deep breath and walked over to the hanging chair in the corner – the one we kids always sat in while waiting for the executioner (aka our dad) to deliver the “talk” that was about to come.

My mind whirred as I sat there imagining what my punishment would be. I’d probably be grounded – AGAIN. I seemed to have spent most of my teenage life grounded for one thing or another but I didn’t miss out on much as I often snuck out the basement window after Mum and Dad went to bed.

The clock ticked as my dread deepened. Finally, Dad turned to me and before he said a single word, I began apologizing for the lesser of my crimes while dad insisted that I apologize to my little brother. “It’s not fair,” I protested. “He deserved it.”

And he probably did, but that wasn’t the point, argued my father. “You’re older and should know better.”

I huffed and puffed while Dad went on about things like building character and taking the high road. And then, just as swiftly as he delivered the verdict, he switched subjects and we began to talk about other things. Things that interested me, like horses and dogs.

My father was always the disciplinarian in our family. He was a physician, a department head, and worked long hours so Mum dealt with the smaller issues that cropped up. But when real discipline needed to be doled out, it was up to Dad. He didn’t yell or shout when I crossed the line; most times I knew what I’d done. All he had to do was invite me down to his study for a little talk and that was enough.

I’m lucky that I had a dad when I was a little girl, a teenager and still today as a woman in her late 50s. In the early years my dad was my guide, the disciplinarian, and the captain of the family ship. Today, at the age of 92, he is my friend. He’s also one of the smartest, most interesting, and most distinguished people I know and I love him to pieces. He plays chess, takes Spanish lessons, volunteers (well he did until last year), swims a couple times a week, and is always game to try something new.

When I think about the wonderful relationship we have today, I feel grateful, because it wasn’t always this way. There was a time in my late teens when I honestly thought it was over. I didn’t think we’d ever speak again. We had a huge fight one night and I packed up lock, stock and barrel and moved out the very next morning. Although we did not speak for over two years, I’ll never forget what he said to me.

“Isabelle, I will always love you. I may not like what you do, but I will always love you.”

I’ve never forgotten those words and I never will.

A father’s role is often underestimated, but fathers can change your life.

I know my father changed mine.

To all the fathers out there, Happy Father’s Day. And thank you for being there.

| isabelle@prliving.ca