Memories of my Father

There are three things that stick out in my mind when I think of my father. They are, a photograph of him drawing the string of his bow, ready to release the arrow; his piano, all apart and in pieces in the basement and the old twelve string guitar that he gave to my brother, Chad; and my father's Bible. These three things have become symbolic of my father in my mind, so that whenever I see them or think of them, I am flooded by some of my favourite memories of my father.

So if you'll forgive the sentimentality of this post, I'd like to tell you about my father.

My father's bow is really big. I don't remember ever being strong enough to draw the string back far enough to launch an arrow any great distance. In the photograph, my father is standing, one foot in front of the other, his right arm straight and strong, holding the bow, the other arm drawing an arrow on the string past his ear. He is wearing a leather guard on his right forearm so that the string does not strip the skin off when he releases it. He is slim and fit and very strong, quite dangerous, in fact, but good. There is something majestic about him in the photo. He is confident, proud, and strong. In another photograph, taken on the same day, he is kneeling on the ground; my brother is standing in front of him, no more than five years old and about three feet tall. My father's arms are on his arms as he tries to draw the bow.

I have never seen the old piano all in one piece. For all my life it has been all apart in the basement. I remember coming home from school once or twice to find my father working on the old piano. Inexplicably, this filled me with an incredible sense of joy. I always liked seeing my father working on the piano. I don't really remember all of what he did, but he fixed all the hammers and made all the keys hit all the strings ... Then he would sit there and play the Homecoming.

The piano is my favourite instrument. I could sit and listen to a well-played piano for hours and hours and I loved listening to my father play. He'd only play two or three songs, but I could listen to him play them over and over again.

He also had an old twelve string guitar. Some of the posts had broken, so he only used six strings on it. But, one day he gave it to Chad, and together they replaced the broken posts and strung it with all twelve strings. That was the first time I'd ever heard a twelve string guitar, and it was really impressive.

My father has an old black leather-covered Bible. It has a binding that can open and close, almost like a binder, but it doesn't look like a binder, it looks like a Bible. He can open the binding and bind his notepaper to the Bible, wherever he wants to. I always thought that was fascinating. It was really neat to leaf through it and feel the smooth, thin pages of his Bible and the rough notepaper all together. Some days he would sit in the living room arm chair, next to the front window and spend what seemed like hours reading his Bible. When we got up in the mornings, he would have already left for work, and his Bible and reading glasses always sat on the table where he had eaten his breakfast.

I remember when my father became an old man. We were playing baseball, he was running backwards to catch a fly ball and turned at the same time, tearing the cartilage in his knee. It took surgeries to fix it and he was on light duty at work after that. He couldn't be as active as he used to and he lost his slim, muscular physique. Before long, I could easily outrun him. That made me sad. While he was still far from being frail or weak, the image I had of him being invincible and powerful was permanently destroyed.

Even so, my father is still probably one of the most creative people I know. I don't think there's anything he can't fix or build. Even if it's something he probably hasn't done before, he'll find a way to fix it or build it. He seems to be a natural born problem solver. He's also a great teacher and he loves to teach, which works out just great because he can teach complicated mechanical stuff to someone like me. And he has a very witty and dry sense of humour. I like to think that I get mine from him. Most people just don't get it, but I find the weirdest things funny.

I think my father is sometimes misunderstood. He may seem severe and strict, and he can be, because he has very high standards. Also, he doesn't beat around the bush with anything--if he has something to say, he comes right out and says it. So, he may seem kind of scary sometimes. But he's not very judgemental, because if he has a problem, it's already out in the open because he's told you about it, so you don't have to worry about what he might be thinking. It also shows that he cares and that he's not quite as hard and severe as he seems.

My father likes to tell jokes with a poker face, just so you don't know how to take it, so you look at him kind of confused for a while and then his eyes start to twinkle and his mouth starts smiling and the humour of it dawns on you and you start laughing.