May I share with you My Father

The below piece was written at the beginning of The Summer of 2016 for my Fathers Memorial. I initially did not think it would necessarily be appropriate to share with everyone here. What I have since remembered is that as children we often have words that many would not associate with praise for our parents when we are younger, and sadly it is often to late to share our fond memories with those who built us. I believe that it is never to late, his soul lives on although his body does not, and in my sharing this, for those that have lost a parent or parents, please find solace in knowing that it is never to late.

All of us have dark and light parts, some during different periods of our lives, are more accentuated than others. My father was a man of few words, brilliant, handsome, he at times could have a sharp wit and biting tongue, but when he loved me he loved me with all that he had.

I share this with you in honor of him, respect for our world as a family, and have done my best to pick the words he would believe would be integral.

Thank you for the space and freedom to do so.

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As I wake up this morning in my old Chevy Van, snuggled deep in my sleeping bag I think I hear rain drops on the roof, and it makes me smile. I sit up and look out across the ocean and the beaches my father once walked as a child. The beaches of Cluxewe, on Northern Vancouver Island.

The mist has settled in overnight and it definitely is what one would call a North Island Morning. A morning my father would have loved to have been a part of. He has been now been gone for over a year. |I struggle most days with my father waiting for me somewhere I cannot quite reach at present. I choose not to miss him because he deserves more. He deserved more from me when he was alive, he deserved silent appreciation, and today he deserves that same respect. That was our love a love that was true and real. Real in the moments we were together and truthful in our silences when we were apart.

I was asked three months ago to write something for this weekend, for his memorial. I could not do it before this morning. Why? I did not ask myself. All I knew was that it was not time. As I drove the long road home over this last week, and saw the road that lies before us I knew I was ready.

As I trudge the road to my happy destination this weekend, I thought of him; I felt his presence, and no longer was I trudging. I was right where I needed to be. I felt the family I have always loved, and honored to the best of my ability surrounding us, as the memories of him and our times together road shotgun. Together we drove here to his old hunting grounds, Cluxewe.

I have been asked to write a piece that would share some about what we were.

My understanding of this, is I am to share about our relationship, as father and daughter, as friends, and most importantly, two humans sharing an earthly experience. Unfortunately because of choices that we had both made in our lives, our relationship over the years; the connection between us I thought, grew weaker and weaker, and the actual moments we shared, became further and further apart. I learned through his death, this was a lie. A lie I told myself, to make his physical absence justified, and the time apart make sense.

As I said I have been asked to share some about what we were.

First off I want to talk about what a great dad he was. When I was a kid he always picked up that phone on Sunday nights. Not once when mom said, “Time to call Dad”, was he not there on the other end of the phone. He always picked up and he always, always, listened. When I got in trouble as a teenager, and there was definitely trouble, he was there, in the physical form…IMMEDIATELY. Once he even lifted me off my feet in those moments of chaos to tell me he loved me. I am honored he uttered those words.

I remember the days of fairy tales and whisker rubs, as I was snuggled in deep beneath the blankets. I am sure I am not the only one that remembers the morning he was at work and I insisted I have root beer with my scrambled eggs. It was not a good idea. As I lay on the couch and held my stomach crying, he raced home, to love me in the only way he could. To remind me what a fool I was. When dad was scared he got angry. That was his love. I am grateful for the wisdom of my youth, as I just knew. I understood his stoic silences, and his violent outbursts.

That golden couch saw quite a few sickly episodes from me. The odd flue, the German Measles, and I believe the chicken pox even graced its shores with me nestled deep in some comforter that reminded me gently I was loved. Never a Christmas went by that the tree was not filled with gifts, he paid the bills that needed to be paid, and he did his best to always protect me. Some sitting where we have gathered today may think these are trivial things that need to not be mentioned. Not a day passes that I am not grateful to have been born to a man of means such as his.

I am proud to say that Gerry Betts was my father. Very proud.

Driving north of Campbell River, the softer moments of our life started to envelope me. As the Van bounced through the Nimpkish Valley heading north, his hands kept coming to mind. His graceful, beautiful hands. I could see them in my mind’s eye, strumming the guitar, tinkling the piano keys, turning the pages of a book, and of course scratching his nose. As we, being myself and the memories of us, rolled along I was reminded of Duncan and Kareens' wedding when he held me in his arms dancing across the gymnasium floor and he looked down at me smiling and said, “Whatever you do little girl just keep on laughing.” I have not always succeeded with this directive, but it has not been from lack of trying. Even when they told me to stop because they did not laugh anymore., still I laugh.

I remember the times in the back of the Greyhound Bus, trying to hold my feet in the four squared lavatory, 15 minutes out of Port Hardy, looking in the bathroom mirror wanting to look beautiful for my dad.

I remembered the family fishing trips.

One time we were zipping along and I was supposed to be keeping an eye out for dead heads and my mind had caught a dream, and had wandered away to somewhere different from the present. If it had not been for Sharon's shriek, my step-mother, well there might be a few less of us sitting here today.

I would visit my father for two or three weeks every summer, two weeks at Christmas, Spring Break, and my 4 day reading breaks. Those trips north when I was young, sitting in the back of the station wagon with my Walkman on, listening to Islands In The Stream with Dolly parton and Kenny Rogers, when I remember those times, I remember us. As the trees began to grow closer and closer to the road, and the buildings started to disappear I would vanish into the kid I was allowed to be with him.

As I am writing away I am remember all the gifts he gave me. I did not get the gift of much of his time but I got the most precious gift of all. My father allowed me to be a child, with him I was allowed to relax. There was a time in my life because of my father, and my father alone, that I was not lead to believe that the sun rose and set on me, all the world’s problems were not my fault, and the world would not stop spinning if I failed.

For all the days that have passed and all of the days to come I will always be grateful for the time in my youth, he allowed me. My father allowed me moments of grace.

When he started his treatment in the hospital, he reassured me he would be ok and that I did not need to be there. I was working in Kluane National Park in the Yukon. I was struggling with the wreckage of our past, the times we had not shared, and the mistakes I had made, and wishing I could be with him. I felt that I should have been more for him, and that I could have been better. He knew this, because he knew me.

I will leave you with what he left me. One night at the end of one of our phone conversations he gently told me that he loved me and he asked me if I knew the Desiderata. I said yes. I got off the phone that night and went and read it. I remember the days when he was really there for me like no one else ever, ever was. The times the machines hummed and beeped, me close to death, and he sat at my bedside reading to me James Harriot. I am here today because of him, from beginning to end, there is no other way to put it.

Thank you Dad. I will always love you. I will always be your daughter, and I know you will never stop being my father. This is what he left me.

The Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

(I have highlighted the pieces that I know that my father really wanted me to hear as loudly and strongly as I could. The pieces that he knew would sustain me when all else faded away.)

What I would like to close with is this.

May we leave the past behind us, never forgetting the lessons we have learned, now looking forward to the future that lies ahead for us, and make it one that not only my father could be proud to have played a part in creating but that we may all play a part in.

I know his soul waits for me, and yes we will be together again.

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Thanks for reading, thanks for listening, and thank you so much for being a part of my life. Without all of you I would not be. I somedays wonder how we have made it this far, but we have.

On this late September Northern Morning, I am hoping for a day like yesterday. 20 Degrees at mid day, minus 5 degrees at night. The extremes of this country keep me falling in love every single day.

My next post will be about mine and my mothers love affair with Kahil Gibran. Stay Tuned.

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