It was my dad’s 89th birthday a couple of weeks ago, but I didn’t call him. Not that I didn’t want to, there’s nothing I would’ve liked more. It’s just that things changed for us about a year and a half ago and we haven’t spoken since. This birthday, there was nothing but the resounding echo of a closed door.

Now, when I call the parents’ number, my mom answers the phone. I envision Dad there, a few feet away in his usual chair. He is relaxed and comfortable, his feet up and his gaze fixed on the TV. He almost certainly has one ear tuned to my mother’s side of the conversation.

In fairness, he’s never been much of a telephone guy. Neither have I, really. I’ve lived a couple hours away from the old homestead for 40 years. Calls to the parents have probably been monthly, at best. If Mom was ever unavailable to answer the phone, Dad was more inclined to let it ring out.

Strange how life distraction and deference to the cocoon of one’s own routine distorts the passage of time. It may be a monthly call to the parents, a birthday catch-up with a friend, or a chance encounter with an old high school chum. When we do reconnect, though, it’s as if time has stood still. With family and friends, we just seem to pick up right where we left off.

Comfort in catch up calls

When I called in the past, I first talked with Mom and always asked for a word with Dad at the end. Conversations with Dad were usually short, but always left me feeling good. They were uplifting, comfortable, and entirely predictable. Seemed we worked from a subconscious checklist of topics and repetition was fair play. In a way, it was part of the charm. Each conversation had the same level of enthusiastic interest as the one before.

In the winter, we’d chat about how his beloved Maple Leafs were faring; in the summer, I’d give him an update on my elusive golf game. We often reminisced about golf tournaments we competed in years ago. He was fitter then, and rounded out a Texas scramble team with three sons. We’d cockily predict certain victory the next time we played, knowing full well an entry form would never be sent.

He’d never fail to ask about my family; his daughter-in-law, his granddaughters and his great grandchildren. His interest always genuine, his love always evident.

In the household of my childhood, love was something more implied than declared. Why express in words what was so clearly demonstrated by deed? Mom whipped up meals for seven, cleaned house, cycled endless laundry. She held down a part time job so we’d have what we needed.

Dad slaved at double shifts, walked to work in the dead of winter while oblivious teenagers hijacked his car. He spent late night hours in bitter Toronto winters flooding backyard ice rinks and ungrudgingly repaired every window we broke. He lugged his kids across Toronto for evening hockey games, knowing a 4:00 a.m. alarm would jolt him awake to start his work all over the next morning.

Parenting in a different time

My dad once became uncharacteristically emotional when a brother and I light-heartedly reminisced with him about juvenile shenanigans and his periodic employment of the belt to restore order. A disciplinary utility of broader appeal, in the times and culture, visited on occasion with the eldest of the litter.

Offences generally involved noise infractions by bedroom-sharing brothers in flagrant disregard of repeated warnings to “stop the horseplay and get to sleep.” In those cases where we miscalculated the final warning, my dad would make astonishingly quick work of a flight of stairs, en route to delivering justice.

An open door of reconciliation

In the context of a life story, it was a short chapter and one long forgiven by the subjects of the experiment. But the memory had clearly struck a deep chord of regret for my dad. This is a man whose life resume describes one of the kindest and gentlest of beings to ever grace this earth. He has always given more than he took. Never had a bad word to say about anyone.

To ease his mind, on this occasion, I simply said, “I love you, Dad.” Words freely used in my immediate family but scarce in the vernacular of my upbringing. Both of us welling up, my dad looked me in the eye and said, softly, “thanks, Derr.” There was no need for him to say anything more. In his eyes and tone, I knew exactly what that meant.

I often think back to when things went off the rails for us, in January 2019. The rest of the family rallied around, hoping against the odds for some kind of divine intervention. Something to prevent the echo of a closed door. As it turned out, words and best hopes would not be enough.

Sixteen months ago, my dad died of brain cancer, cruelly complicated by a simultaneous, life-threatening bowel condition. It all happened with shocking speed; a few concerning symptoms in the leading months, a series of tests, and an urgent hospitalization. The diagnosis was dire and the prognosis left grim options for an 87-year-old: Multiple, high-risk surgeries for a chance of surviving a year; or palliative care with a life expectancy projected in days. The door was closing.

The echo of impressions made

I believe we evolve into unique beings as a patchwork of the influences in our lives. Consciously or subconsciously, we emulate or reject the best and worst of people around us. The pool of candidates to shape us runs deep. It may be parents, siblings, spouses, partners, friends, teachers, coaches, bosses, colleagues, spiritual leaders or public figures.

I have drawn from many on that list of influences over the course of my life. And many of the things that leave me with the most pride, come from my dad. As a kid I watched intently and learned as he built, repaired and MacGyvered his way through impressively ambitious DIY projects. I joke and interact with my grandchildren much the way he did with his. I even find myself using his phrases, expressions, and mannerisms. Thinking of these things now brings a smile to my face and a warmth in my heart.

The echo of that closed door is an everlasting reminder of the precious and well-lived life of a very good man.

I’m Derrick Coyle; proud husband, father and grandad, happily retired in London, Ontario after a long and satisfying career in the world of insurance. SilverFoxWise is a personal blog created to indulge a longtime passion and scratch a creative itch; an introspective boomer’s cathartic canvas of musings and perspectives. Thanks for coming along for the read.

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