> CD #58: Dadcore
Check out this totally legit fanny pack I borrowed from my father for an upcoming trip:
It’s the ultimate dadcore item, straight from the early 90s. My dad, who started smoking in China when he was 11 and quit cold turkey two years ago at age 75, used to carry his cigarettes and lighter in it. If you had asked me for a physical description of him at any point in the last 35 years, I likely would’ve mentioned the fanny pack. And a toothpick dangling from his lips.
I don’t often write about my father because it’s difficult for me to describe our relationship. For many years, when I was a kid, he was both there and not there, in the way I suspect many 80s dads were. He was usually busy working out in the garage or smoking or watching television. Occasionally he took us fishing, but mostly he ignored my brother and me. When he was around, he was brash and arrogant, which was off-putting (especially because we were meek children) but mostly harmless. And really, he wasn’t around all that often.
In my teens and twenties, my dad and I both got more opinionated and had some pretty epic arguments. The one I remember most was about Tiananmen Square, when I cried so hard that my nose started bleeding all over the place and my mother ordered us both to stop talking. But after I got married and moved out, things mellowed. We have both changed our minds about many things over the years, and now we actually get along fairly well.
Over the weekend, he had a little health scare and, for the first time in my life, it occurred to me that my robust and fiercely independent dad, who likes to get up at 5 a.m. to swim at least 2,000 metres every morning, might actually be getting old. A sobering thought, especially when I don’t really feel like I know him very well at all.
What I do know are his most random stories and irrelevant thoughts, shared all within the the first 15 minutes of our drive to the hospital on Saturday morning. Things like:
How, when he first came to Calgary in the early 70s, he used to go watch Bruce Lee movies at the drive-in, but the radio in his car was busted, so he viewed them as silent films,
How all sporting events, including the Olympics, are rigged because you can bet on them,
How I really need to buy an air fryer so I can stop serving subpar french fries to my children, and
How he planned on practicing his swimming strokes on an exercise ball now that his favourite pool was closed for renovations.
The hospital scans showed nothing too serious, and he’ll most likely be fine in a couple months, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling like I’m running out of time.
When I got home that evening after dropping my dad off, I noticed the fanny pack was a bit torn in one spot, and he had previously tried to mend it himself with big, clumsy stitches. So I got out my sewing kit and did my best to put it back together the right way.
As I worked my needle back and forth across the broken seam, I wondered whether it was too late, and whether any child can really know a parent, especially when that parent has little desire to be known. Maybe the most he can give me is something practical for my journey. And maybe the most I can do is put in a few stitches so it holds together long enough for me thank him when I return.
:) Teresa
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Thank you for such a touching story. Aging parents are the best/worst/weirdest/everythingest
I'm glad your dad is okay. My dad almost died twice in the last five years despite being above-average healthy most of the time. You just never know. When I was in high school I used to salvage his worn-out white dress shirts to wear to school with the sleeves rolled up, over teal tapered pants and gold flats. It was the '80s 😉