Me and Dad: Reflections on Lessons Learned

By Sylvia Holt

Beautifully illustrated, nostalgic reflection on life lessons learned from a gentle, wise, story-telling father.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781619279360

Book preview

Sis.

CHAPTER ONE

Early Memories

It doesn’t matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.

Anne Sexton

My earliest memories of Dad are mere snippets, tiny glimpses of things I felt, or saw, or smelled; the gentle touch of Dad’s giant hand on my cheek, the rough callused skin, the smell of tobacco and sawdust, the feeling of being loved and warm and safe within those big hands.

I remember the icy air biting at my nose as I buried my face deep into the coarse wool of my father’s coat. I could look over his shoulder into the darkness behind him and hear the snow crunching under his boots, and feel the rhythm of his walk. I was so high up, riding my gentle giant, molded to his shoulder and firmly enveloped in his big arm. That is my earliest memory of Dad. I felt so safe, so protected. I always felt like that when I was with him. When I was afraid or unsure I looked for my dad. I remember running after him and wrapping my arms around his leg. He would pick me up and hold me against his shoulder and all the wonderful feelings of being loved and safe would flood through me. Other times he let me step onto the top of his boot so I could ride up and down with every step, squealing with laughter. I am so grateful to my dad for giving me those memories.

Once he built a sleigh with waxed runners so it would glide easily through the snow. Sometimes he would pull me around on the sleigh as we went about his chores. I remember watching the bottom of his huge boots appear and disappear, leaving deep tracks in the snow. Occasionally the little sleigh would become a freight transport. Dad would set a bucket or box on the sled with me and lift it off at the next stop. I would hang on to the cargo to keep it from falling off. That was my special responsibility and I felt so proud that I could help. Sometimes he would give the sleigh a gentle push down the slope near our house. I would imagine myself flying through the jungle (tall grasses poking through the snow), narrowly escaping the claws of wild beasts (fleeing chickens), or being eaten by a tiger (the cat) before finally reaching safety (Dad coming to get me at the bottom of the hill). Once we built a snowman on top of an old sled and parked it halfway down the hill. Dad propped the end of the scarf up with a stick so that, from a distance, the snowman looked like he was travelling so fast his scarf was flying out behind him. It was the best snowman we ever built.

When we visited my cousins they would come running as soon as Dad drove into the yard. They knew that Uncle always came with pockets full of gum and candies, and that he would give them all horseback rides. Dad would bend down on one knee and hoist two or three children up onto his broad back and hold them there with his arms behind him while he galloped around the yard. Sometimes little cowpokes would ride on his work boots as well. They would laugh and squeal with delight and beg for more. Everyone got a turn and everyone got a candy—always. I resented sharing my dad’s attentions. I regret that now because I know now how much those visits must have meant, especially to some of my cousins who didn’t have a dad. They loved him too.

When Dad did carpentry work he would bring home boxes of scrap wood of all sorts and sizes for us to play with. In a corner of the garden every block became