29 July 2010

my dad picks up languages well when he travels. He has been writing me in charming idiomatic phrasing spelled phonetically. Yesterday I was his son.

2 comments:

thesundaygap said...

You rarely write about your dad - this is nice to read.

wrenna said...

My dad is a man of few words. When I was a young teenager we would spend hours in the car going to swimming practices together and hardly spoke. He was a manager at work and when he intervened at home he tried to be a manager as well. I resented him for this. He was utterly silent during the years I worried for my mother's failing health. He speaks more now. He is kind, generous and self-sacrificing. He lost a promotion to a female boss from Quebec and has become better at communicating. He has five brothers and went to Catholic school. We were on the low end of the economic scale in nice middle class neighbourhoods as I was growing up and I never understood why I didn't quite fit in. He likes to eat and drink well and loves how I cook. He likes fixing and building things but details frustrate him. He is impulsive. He brought home our first cat who was a wild thing. He was a champion football player but was too short to play professionally. He goes too hard. He likes F1 racing and ultimate fighting. He says that he would like to die, "in the first wave," and have his ashes kept in on the mantle (we have none anymore).