Dad's day

Today is the day set aside for fathers. It seems so unfair, really, that we only designate one day for them, after they've given so much to us.
Like my friend Jen, who recently wrote so eloquently of her dad in her blog, I had two fathers, the one I was born to and the one who largely raised me. Like her, too, I'm no longer on good terms with one of my dads. In my case, though, it's not from a lack of respect.
My first sight of John McCallum, the man who would soon become The Man in my life, came in August 1980. I was eight years old; he had just turned 21. Some mutual friends were moving, and John was helping them. I was sent out to introduce myself. "Hello", I said, "you must be John."
His first impression was of a polite little boy. Mine was of a giant. True, he only stood 6'2", but there was something about the way he carried himself that bespoke a man of substance.
His first impression was dead wrong: I was a spoiled little brat, a sore loser, and an inveterate whiner, all of which he found out later that very day. My impression of him, though, has remained fairly constant through the years: he's been a giant influence in my life.
It was John, as I wrote in my last entry, who forced me to get out of the house and make friends. It was John who, with the patience of a saint, taught me the things any normal eight-year-old should have mastered years before. And it was John who unflinchingly coped with my excesses, my insecurities, and my general childishness, even into my teenage years.
There is simply no way that I, at 21, could have dealt with myself at eight years old. The very thought chills my blood. Yet John did it without hesitation. I'm not kidding when I say that he pretty much singlehandedly turned around a childhood that, left alone, would have ended in jail or suicide.
What do I remember of John? His was the voice of reason in my house. He would talk to me about anything, and he rarely lost his temper, no matter how many times I'd screw up. It's true that at the time, I would tune most of his gentle lectures out, but I've absorbed them subconciously nonetheless: play fair. Be respectful. Don't be lazy. Find the joy in everyday life. Think before you speak, and think twice before you act. These little lessons were never spoken so succintly, but rather modelled implicitly: John's every action was one you could at least seriously consider emulating.
My mom ran in two modes: irritatingly happy or just plain irritated. John tended to just be John. He never stopped working. "Relax" wasn't in his dictionary. But through all the work--which included, at one point, gutting a house and rebuilding it by himself from the inside out--he kept a remarkably even keel. Failure was not an option, and success was not to be boasted about. In short, John McCallum was and is a great man. Despite the fact that my relationship with the woman he married in 1981 has rotted away, it wasn't his fault.
John: I respect you.
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I never felt comfortable calling John "dad", though. I tried a few times; there was even a time when I strongly considered changing my name to Ken McCallum. But in the end, I couldn't do the latter and felt supremely uncomfortable with the former. Because I *had* a dad. True, he lived five or six hours away, and true, I'd go months without seeing him, but he was there, all the same.
My father and my mother: a match made in the deepest pit of hell. How it lasted seven years is beyond me. Somebody must have broken a mirror. But I was a product of that union, so I guess it wasn't all bad.
I have very few early memories specifically of my dad. What hazy memories exist are reinforced by countless pictures in old scrapbooks. Nearly every weekend through the summer, we'd pile into our Ford Maverick, drive to Parry Sound, pitch the tent at Oastler Lake Provincial Park, and drive into town to see Grandma Breadner, my aunt Dawna and uncle Ted, the Hoburns, and, hell, most of the rest of the population. My father couldn't walk six paces without somebody saying "hi". It's still the same today. To say that Ken Breadner the Elder is a District of Parry Sound icon is to put it mildly.
Dad was downsized to part time as of '77, and my relationship with him entered a new, if predictable, phase. I'd only see him three or maybe four times a year, and he believed he had to pack a year's worth of affection (read: stuff) into maybe ten or twelve days. I can't deny this had an effect on me. I'd rarely sleep the night before going 'up north' and I would be horribly depressed every time a trip was over with. That included what to date have been my only two extended trips outside the country: to Florida in '84 and Venezuela in '86.
Only once did I ever think about running away from my London life and making 'up north' permanent. It was immediately after a huge fight with my mother when I was seventeen. Only one problem: my dad's second wife. Although she tolerated me for the brief periods I invaded her space, I believe she would have booted me out after no more than a month.
Since I got married and my mother dissolved from my life, I've begun to have a much better and more rounded relationship with my dad, thanks in no small part to his third wife, Heather. (Third time's the charm for dad: this one will stick.) And I've come to realize there really is a lot of my father in me.
Stuff I've learned from my father: live life to the fullest, so when you die, you die happy. Laugh a lot, and make others laugh with you. Extra points if you can get people to pee in their pants. Make sure that every person you meet will remember you, and try to make sure they'll smile when they do it. Help others in any way you can. Stay in touch with history: it's how you got to where you are. If you have a knee-jerk response to something, let it out: then at least you have something to edit.
Now, my father's retired from his lifelong career as a police officer, but he's still serving the community as a volunteer firefighter and as a Lion. He'll do that until they tell him to stop, I suppose, and then he'll find some other way to be of service.
I envy the years I missed with him, and I'm glad I now have the chance to make them up.
Dad--I love you.