Growing up with Hippy parents was a blessing and a curse all rolled up together. We ate what we grew and raised. My sisters and I wore hand-me-down clothes. We walked a mile or two, and yes it was a mile, not a kilometer. Plywood floors, pumping fresh drinking water from the well out back, trudging 100 yards across the frozen lawn to the outhouse in sometimes 3 or 4 feet of fresh sticky snow, in the middle of the night. We did not have indoor plumbing, I think I've mentioned that before, and with 5 little girls running around and then as we got older... my poor Dad!
I was the last of 5 girls, I think they really were hoping for a boy. Once I was born, I think that was it for them. We were all expected to work as secretaries, or something similar, get married and have babies. Out of 5, only two of us ever married and had children. This is the difference between small town Canadian Hippy family to the bigger, more dramatic American Pop Culture versions. Have to say I was the shiny green apple in a basket full of sweet reds. This often was to the chagrin of my Father as he and I didn't see eye to eye for years. He was the pragmatist and I was the artist and the dreamer. I learned to adapt and make things work, even though I often had to compromise to make everyone else happy. I always saw the big picture and the next level. My family was not quite so broad thinking, and those that were, kept their silence and didn't know they had a voice too. I did what I was told but was doing it my own way, the result was often the same, the path was usually faster and more efficient though.
So the years go on, I do the babies and the marriage thing as was expected, but what I really wanted back then was to travel and see the world. Have adventures, learn new languages and cultures, experience life. I believe this was a product of my exposure to National Geographic, Wild Kingdom of Omaha, and especially Jacques Cousteau Undersea Adventures. (PS Dad made me watch those!) This was not acceptable from my family's point of view, so to appease everyone, I married a man that worked in the slick and dirty business of oil and gas. We traveled the world with the little ones in tow and I managed to see some of it while I was raising the kids internationally. I sort of made my Dad happy, but he really wasn't pleased about the kids being raised overseas. I was still the dreamer, and he was still the pragmatist. I don't believe he was ever proud of my accomplishments to that point. I was definitely the granny smith tart green apple then.
Last year, in February, we learned my Dad was really ill. He hid his discomfort from my sisters, who lived close by. When it was finally discovered, it was too late to do anything about it. His body was riddled with pockets of Cancer. I drove my children the three and a half hours North to see him, while he was in the hospital. Then the Doctors told my sisters that the Cancer was destroying his mind and fairly soon, he would not know us.
I made one last drive North alone to visit early one morning. When I arrived, he was sleeping quietly in his bed. The pain he may have felt in the night was etched in the lines on his face. He slept silently for 15 minutes and when he woke, he asked who all the friends were that I brought with me. We were alone in the room. It may have been his mind starting to falter, but then again when you're that close to the end, who knows what you see or feel.
For two hours, we talked about fun things from the days on our little hippy farm. Stooking the cut alfalfa in the field and riding on the top of the haystack wagon back to the barns. Hooking the old wooden sled to the back of the tractor and riding around the roads in the frosty white winters. (All without safety harness and helmets! Lol!) Building junk in his workshop. For those of you that don't know, my Dad's father built Grandfather clocks so my Dad's choice was to build harps. I have two full size Celtic Concerto harps in my living room, as well as a lovely old wooden Duesenberg toy car he built. He was not pleased that I was a photographer. He felt it wasn't a valuable profession and I would never amount to much in that industry so I was bit surprised when he asked about my work, which he never did before. I told him about getting a contract in Central America, one in Seattle, a pending one in Europe for a bank at the time that never panned out. I finally told him about reaching my goal of photographing His Holiness, The XIVth Dalai Lama the September before. To this he crossed his long lanky arms to his chest and said, "The Dalai Lama!" . The comments from his mouth were witty and fresh and I won't repeat them, but as much as he made jokes and played it down, I could see the pride shining from behind his eyes. I had never witnessed that before and it was like a beacon of understanding to me. An instant peace settled over the room and we shared a moment that will last in my consciousness until I take my last breath. I finally understood who he was and he understood who I was.
The hospital kitchen was just sending up his lunch. I hugged my Dad and said goodbye for the last time. I told him I would not be back again. I knew he would not know me soon and in a few weeks he did not know any of us. He had always played the strong silent Dad and I now know he would never have wanted any of us to remember him as weak and helpless in a hospital bed. He passed away on April 26, 2010 and I flew out to Central America the next day. Dad never liked a lot of excess and emotions made him uncomfortable in the extreme so a big weeping dramatic funeral was not what he would have envisioned for himself. I stop by his graveside out in the sleepy little country cemetery every time when I go North, just to pay my respects, clear off his marker or pull out a few weeds.
I have no witty words of wisdom, no happy ending, and no prose for a smoothly worded Father's day card. The story should speak for itself.
To all you Dads, soon to be Dads, and future Dads, Happy Father's Day! Make it count each and everyday.
Don't forget to check your Compass!
I was the last of 5 girls, I think they really were hoping for a boy. Once I was born, I think that was it for them. We were all expected to work as secretaries, or something similar, get married and have babies. Out of 5, only two of us ever married and had children. This is the difference between small town Canadian Hippy family to the bigger, more dramatic American Pop Culture versions. Have to say I was the shiny green apple in a basket full of sweet reds. This often was to the chagrin of my Father as he and I didn't see eye to eye for years. He was the pragmatist and I was the artist and the dreamer. I learned to adapt and make things work, even though I often had to compromise to make everyone else happy. I always saw the big picture and the next level. My family was not quite so broad thinking, and those that were, kept their silence and didn't know they had a voice too. I did what I was told but was doing it my own way, the result was often the same, the path was usually faster and more efficient though.
So the years go on, I do the babies and the marriage thing as was expected, but what I really wanted back then was to travel and see the world. Have adventures, learn new languages and cultures, experience life. I believe this was a product of my exposure to National Geographic, Wild Kingdom of Omaha, and especially Jacques Cousteau Undersea Adventures. (PS Dad made me watch those!) This was not acceptable from my family's point of view, so to appease everyone, I married a man that worked in the slick and dirty business of oil and gas. We traveled the world with the little ones in tow and I managed to see some of it while I was raising the kids internationally. I sort of made my Dad happy, but he really wasn't pleased about the kids being raised overseas. I was still the dreamer, and he was still the pragmatist. I don't believe he was ever proud of my accomplishments to that point. I was definitely the granny smith tart green apple then.
Last year, in February, we learned my Dad was really ill. He hid his discomfort from my sisters, who lived close by. When it was finally discovered, it was too late to do anything about it. His body was riddled with pockets of Cancer. I drove my children the three and a half hours North to see him, while he was in the hospital. Then the Doctors told my sisters that the Cancer was destroying his mind and fairly soon, he would not know us.
I made one last drive North alone to visit early one morning. When I arrived, he was sleeping quietly in his bed. The pain he may have felt in the night was etched in the lines on his face. He slept silently for 15 minutes and when he woke, he asked who all the friends were that I brought with me. We were alone in the room. It may have been his mind starting to falter, but then again when you're that close to the end, who knows what you see or feel.
For two hours, we talked about fun things from the days on our little hippy farm. Stooking the cut alfalfa in the field and riding on the top of the haystack wagon back to the barns. Hooking the old wooden sled to the back of the tractor and riding around the roads in the frosty white winters. (All without safety harness and helmets! Lol!) Building junk in his workshop. For those of you that don't know, my Dad's father built Grandfather clocks so my Dad's choice was to build harps. I have two full size Celtic Concerto harps in my living room, as well as a lovely old wooden Duesenberg toy car he built. He was not pleased that I was a photographer. He felt it wasn't a valuable profession and I would never amount to much in that industry so I was bit surprised when he asked about my work, which he never did before. I told him about getting a contract in Central America, one in Seattle, a pending one in Europe for a bank at the time that never panned out. I finally told him about reaching my goal of photographing His Holiness, The XIVth Dalai Lama the September before. To this he crossed his long lanky arms to his chest and said, "The Dalai Lama!" . The comments from his mouth were witty and fresh and I won't repeat them, but as much as he made jokes and played it down, I could see the pride shining from behind his eyes. I had never witnessed that before and it was like a beacon of understanding to me. An instant peace settled over the room and we shared a moment that will last in my consciousness until I take my last breath. I finally understood who he was and he understood who I was.
The hospital kitchen was just sending up his lunch. I hugged my Dad and said goodbye for the last time. I told him I would not be back again. I knew he would not know me soon and in a few weeks he did not know any of us. He had always played the strong silent Dad and I now know he would never have wanted any of us to remember him as weak and helpless in a hospital bed. He passed away on April 26, 2010 and I flew out to Central America the next day. Dad never liked a lot of excess and emotions made him uncomfortable in the extreme so a big weeping dramatic funeral was not what he would have envisioned for himself. I stop by his graveside out in the sleepy little country cemetery every time when I go North, just to pay my respects, clear off his marker or pull out a few weeds.
I have no witty words of wisdom, no happy ending, and no prose for a smoothly worded Father's day card. The story should speak for itself.
To all you Dads, soon to be Dads, and future Dads, Happy Father's Day! Make it count each and everyday.
Don't forget to check your Compass!
Cole
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