My Dad Was Not a Bad Man

Short description of my early life with my father.

My father was not a bad man. He suffered what all of us whom inhabit this particular corner of the internet suffer. I even know where at least some of his trauma came from. He was a medical officer with a RAF squadron during WWII. He was the only one of the original compliment to survive the war. I can only imagine what he saw. He was a man of great empathy. I saw him at his kindest. Think how actively participating in such an event would affect such a person. He was also a demon whom getting in the way of was a very bad idea. This is how I grew up. Hiding in the shadows until it was safe to come out and when I did I walked the line. Maybe that is why I like Cash so much. I had his greatest hits album even before I was a teenager.
I also grew up at 70 MPH. He liked to drive fast. No seatbelts of course. He drove that fast and a lot faster with me in the car from an early age. We picked up a hitchhiker once. His name was Winston. When he got out he said to my father , "thank you for the ride Dr. but I will never get in a car with you again". Imagine how fast he drove when he was alone. There was a forest fire down the shore one time and he was needed. He had a rag top land rover and he went. No hesitation. The fire had crossed the road. He did not stop or detour. Straight fucking through. The story goes he came out the other side and the rag top was on fire. That was my dad. Nothing got in his way and God help who or whatever did.
He took me everywhere with him. I went on house calls with him. I touched my first cancerous tumor when I was six or seven. The man had stomach cancer. He took me into the house with him to the mans bedside. He asked the man if I could see and touch the tumor. He was teaching me. The man said yes and my dad pulled the cover back. It was the size of a baseball and quite hard. He was going to die and I knew it. I was six or seven. Another time we were on a house call to a WWI vet. I think he had heart problems. That was common round the bay , in those days , as the diet was heavy with salt fish and meat and grease. The food was delicious but a long term diet of it killed a lot of people. Anyway , I was brought to his bedside and told that during the war he was shot in the head. Obviously he survived. My dad asked him to show me the wound. He turned his head and there was a hole in it. But wait! There is more! I was invited to put my finger in. I did. Very strange experience. Are you now beginning to see why some people do not believe the stories? These are true. They happened.
He took me everywhere with him. No where was off limits to him. If there was a private back room at a business or a secure area , we went. No one got in his way. Not even the RCMP. Even at the butchers we would go in the back , a food safe area by today's standards and even theirs , and talk to the butchers. Everyone knew him of course. He was infamous. When he died it was the biggest funeral the bay had ever seen. I shook hands for what seemed like an eternity that day.
I went everywhere with him. Even to the bars , and there were a lot of bars. All the bar keeps knew him and knew to lay whisky down. If it was early in the day I would go in with him. If not, I waited in the car. I waited in the car a lot. I ate a lot of deviled eggs in those days. They sat in a liquid on the bar. There were other things to eat there too. I ate them. There was nothing else until we got home.
He took me everywhere. I tell these few stories to give you a sense of my relationship with him. He was everything to me. And I lost him one day without warning. This event was the defining trauma in my life.That day my world ended.
The Robin