It’s Father’s Day and I’m ruminating about my Dad again, so I thought it might be fun to add to my series of stories of him that I remember. I know this isn’t even a drop in the bucket of what I remember, but I wanted to share these stories so they are not forgotten and this man who loved his children dearly is always remembered.

The Dance

A while back, my sister recently gave me a picture of me with my Mom and Dad. I was probably about three or four years old.  I thought it was really funny because I am standing between my parents who were sitting down.  The top of my head reaches my Dad just under his arm.  I’m standing there with my tongue out, apparently licking my lips from something good from the refreshment table.  At first I thought this picture was at a church service because it clearly is the church that I attended as a child. As I looked closer, though, I noticed that both my parents are wearing flowers.  My Mom has a corsage and my Dad has a boutonniere pinned to his lapel.  This could only mean one thing.  They were at a church dance.

My parents loved to dance and whenever there was an opportunity to attend, they were there.  I believe that this picture was at a “Gold and Green Ball.”  My church, back in the day, used to hold these balls every year. I was young enough that my parents took me with them this particular year.  It has always been one of the earliest memories I have with my parents and dancing.  They didn’t just take me and leave me on the sidelines to watch, they took me in their arms and danced me around with them.  I remember my Dad holding me in his left arm, my Mom securely holding him with her right and we would twirl around the room, just the three of us.  It was a very special night for me and probably the beginning of my love for dancing.  Now that I have the picture of my Mom all dressed up in her pretty dress (most likely one she sewed for the occasion), Dad in his suit and tie, me in my fluffy dress, it solidifies that memory and gives me a memento of that very special night.  I will never forget how it felt to float around the room, securely in the arms of my parents.

Dad’s Suit

My Dad’s suit was always my go to place if I wanted a treat.  He always, always, always had mints or gum in his suit pocket.  I know it was because he never wanted to have bad breath at church, but I took advantage of the situation and helped myself when no one was watching.  I remember sneaking into my parent’s room and quietly opening the closet door to Dad’s side, searching his pockets for mints.  These mints were not like the ones you find today.  He always had the giant pink or white double-thick Ganong Canadian wintergreen mints that have been sold for around a hundred years.  They were big enough that two would fit nicely in my small palm and give me a daily treat.  If it wasn’t mints, then he had Wrigley’s DoubleMint gum in his pocket.  Either way, it was satisfying.

So here’s the thing about the gum and mints and how my Dad responded when he noticed things missing from his pockets.  He never said a word.  He just went out and got more and re-filled his pockets.  I’m sure he noticed, but he was the kind of person that arguing and fighting about things like that was not important. It was more important to bring a little happiness to a child.

I very rarely got treats at home, unless it was something that my Mom baked or made, but my Dad would take me to town with him and buy me a soda (glass bottles) or candy bar (giant bars).  I was always more than willing to go to town with Dad so I could cash in on his generosity and satisfy my sweet tooth.

The Ironing Basket

I don’t recall at what age, but at some point it became my job to help with laundry duties. Before we owned a dryer, we would wash our clothes in the washing machine then take them outside to hang them on the clothesline to dry. Yes, we actually used clothes pins and they had to stay on the line for most of the day. Once dry, they would be brought in and they were always wrinkled.  The sun and wind did not get the wrinkles out like dryers do today. They needed ironing.  Once in the house, they would need to be prepped for ironing.  We did not have steam irons, so we would need to sprinkle them lightly with water to give them a little moisture when ironing.  I would sprinkle them, fold them and roll them up like a towel.  They would then be put in the basket to be ironed.  Dad had a lot of shirts. I don’t remember him wearing anything other than cotton button down shirts, even when out working in the fields and they all needed ironing.  It took me the good part of a day and sometimes all day to get them ironed. I remember Dad’s shirts for the most part, but I also had to learn how to iron dresses, blouses and other things. It was quite a chore at the time, but even today when I’m sewing and ironing, I still remember carefully ironing Dad’s shirts. Going around the buttons, making sure they were pressed nicely so he would look his best no matter where he was, even out in the field irrigating.

Dust Bowl

As I got older, I graduated to driving tractors and helping with the planting, plowing, cultivating, harrowing, disking the soil and other soil preparation for the crops. I remember many times hauling manure from the corral in the manure spreader and coming back covered in it, then my brother or Dad would load it up again and off I would go back out to spread more joy. There’s a reason it’s called a manure “spreader.”  You start going and it flies everywhere.  It’s meant to do that, because it needs to get on the soil so it can be plowed in as fertilizer. Not a pleasant smelling task, but a necessity on the farm.

Other times, I helped with the hay fields, raking it into rows so it could be baled.  My brother or Dad always did the baling.  It was a little too technical for me to handle (or maybe too dangerous) but my Dad never asked me to do that part.  I did, however do a lot of hay hauling. I was able to buck hundred pound bales of hay up onto the trailer.  I’m not sure I could even come close to that now. Sometimes Dad would just have me drive while he and my brother loaded the trailer, but we all pitched in when it was time to unload and stack the bales on the haystack. Dad had a loader that would move the bales from the trailer on up onto the haystack, but we had to get the bales from the trailer onto the loader first. Boy did we all have muscles after hay season!

I do remember one day I was out in the field, probably harrowing to even out the soil.  It was a pretty windy day with dust flying everywhere. I got the field all done and took the tractor back to the house.  Dad took one look at me and burst out laughing. I had no idea why, but his laugh was infectious so I started laughing too. Then he laughed ever harder.  He told me I needed to go in the house and clean up.  I got in the bathroom and looked in the mirror.  I looked like a big dust bowl.  My hair, face, arms, clothes were covered with about ten layers. I think all Dad was able to see was the whites of my eyes and my teeth when I smiled.

 The New Granary

My Dad grew a lot of different things but mostly hay and grains. Sometimes he grew field corn so it could be chopped up for cattle feed.  He grew wheat, barley and oats. One year, he decided he needed to build a granary to store it in. It was an exciting time for me. I had never seen a granary being constructed before. He got all the materials and enlisted others to help, including me. I learned how to use a ratchet to tighten up the bolts. The cement truck came to pour the foundation. Once that was done, we started to put the thing together. We started by putting the pieces of corrugated aluminum together, beginning at the bottom layer then working our way up. As it got a little taller, we used ladders to get us up higher. By the time we got up where it was too tall to reach, Dad got his FarmAll tractor with a bucket/scoop on the front.  That scoop could hold a couple of people and it would get pretty high up. (high enough to get us to the top of the apricot tree for picking apricots every year) Anyway, we continued on with the construction, one bolt, one washer at a time until it was all put together.  I remember the roof was probably the scariest because the sheets were a little bit heavier than the corrugated side pieces. When it was done, though, we all went in to inspect it and found that our voices made a big echo when inside, so we stayed inside for a while fooling around with our voices.

That year we would bring the grain in from the field in the back of the truck. Someone would drive the combine and someone would drive the truck alongside so the grain would shoot into the bed of the truck. It was an art getting it just right, but sometimes I drove and sometimes my Mom would. It was a big production during harvest. Once in the truck it would be driven to the granary where it could be unloaded with an auger going from the truck to the granary. I’m not sure it was the safest thing for a kid to do, but I took my shoes off to shovel the grain toward the auger. (cringe) If I didn’t then the grain would get stuck in my shoes and cause a lot of discomfort and pain. It was easier to just be barefoot standing in the grain feeling the grain between my toes. The thing I remember most about it is the smell of the fresh grain, it’s golden color and all the grasshoppers hopping all over. They would hop around and as I shoveled the grain to the auger they would be carried right up too. To be sure, many a grasshopper died in that granary from suffocation and the weight of it.

This is just another glimpse of my memories with my Dad. There’s so much more that can and will be written about him, but since it’s Father’s Day, I want to say how much he was loved. He was always a hard worker and there was always a job to be done. He was a farmer and enjoyed it. He taught me to work hard and to keep going until the job was done. He taught me that reading and singing is a joy and it is important to enjoy things after a hard day’s work. He taught me that stories are important and meant to be shared with others. He kept going until he just couldn’t go anymore. I miss his smile, his laugh, his hugs, his whisker burns. My stories with him and of him will not end until I take my last breath. He was a good Dad.