Oh My Papa

Dad and wee Ru - 1968

There was a time in my teens when, every night after dinner, my father would rev up the stereo and play Eddie Fisher’s paean to paters everywhere—the sugared chestnut titled “Oh, My Papa.” I think it was his way of reminding my sisters and me (the boys had married and moved on) how lucky we were to have such a kindly, benevolent man at the head of the family ... that, or he enjoyed watching us scatter to our rooms with our hands clamped over our ears. It was sometimes hard to tell with Dad.

It sometimes still is.

While my sibs and I were growing up, our mother was almost always accessible, but Dad was mysterious and a little scary. He was so elusive that time spent with him was precious—unless you were in trouble for something. We all learned early on to walk with our hands behind our backs in case he swatted our butts as we passed. I don’t recall Mum ever threatening us with “wait ’til your father gets home”, but if he was already home …

He sang to me when I didn’t want to go to sleep. He painted me a picture of a polar bear because I asked him to, even though he had never seen one before and had no idea how to go about painting one. (I still have the painting; if I can find it, I’ll post a photo of it.) Dad painted a lot when I was a kid. I loved watching him mix the oils and brush the colours on the canvas. To entertain me—and perhaps himself—during production on a tropical sunset, he told a story about being held captive on a bad island and swimming across the ocean to the good island, pausing en route to do battle with a great white shark that grazed him with its teeth before he sent it packing (he even showed me the scrape on his leg!) Cuddling with him on the couch of a Sunday afternoon, listening to his heart beating strong and slow beneath my ear, I nearly blacked out more than once trying to match my breathing to his. I didn’t dare wriggle, either. No matter how numb I got, I stayed as still as I could for fear of disturbing his nap. It wasn’t as if he had a bad temper; I just wanted to be good so I could cuddle with him another time. Once I hit my teens, I’d sit on the end of the couch and he’d stretch out with his feet in my lap and my paperback propped on his slippers. Occasionally, he was stabbed with my nail file for nudging my book with his toes.

Dad was serious about providing for his wife and family, but he knew how to use his downtime. I learned practical stuff like how to stretch a dollar and bake a crumble from my mother (sewing, alas, never took root). From my father, I learned to dream. And write. And sing. And draw. And how to call an offside in hockey. And that it was okay to have a crush on a movie star. And that if I thought Bram Stoker wrote scary stuff, I should give Dennis Wheatley a whirl.

It seems that he and I can discuss, debate, and dissect any subject. I have talked with my father about the meaning of life, the nature of God, and how to coach in the NHL. For as long as I can remember, he has encouraged open dialogue between himself and his kids. If we are troubled, he wants to help. If we are in trouble, he will help. If all is well, he’s either relieved to hear it or doesn’t believe it for a second.

No matter how old you are, everyone wants their father to praise, commend, and/or recognize them as funny, smart, intelligent, successful adults. Dad and I have had our tussles—what father and daughter haven’t?—but like my mother, I choose to have selective recall. Besides, I have figured out that any conflict stemmed from me growing up and Dad struggling to let go of his little girl. He is thirty years and six months older than me. There was a time when three-and-a-half decades seemed unbridgeable. Not so anymore. My older older brother once observed, “As I got older, Dad got smarter.” Well, as I got older, Dad and I became a lot more alike than is comfortable for him. Turns out we’ve always been alike; it just took this long to realize—and accept—it. I’m good with it … and I hope he is, too.

Today is Dad’s birthday. Listen carefully, Pop; I shall say this only once:

Oh, my pa-pa, to me he is so wonderful
Oh, my pa-pa, to me he is so good
No one could be, so gentle and so lovable
Oh, my pa-pa, he always understood.

Gone are the days when he could take me on his knee
And with a smile he'd change my tears to laughter

Oh, my pa-pa, so funny, so adorable
Always the clown so funny in his way.

three and a half decades later