Around Mother’s Day, I published an essay in honour of my mother. With Father’s Day fast approaching, I thought it only fair I pay tribute to my father in similar fashion.
But what to write?
Dad is a case study in juxtaposition and embodies what I can only describe as “simple complexity”. Take, for instance, his stance on clothing. He believes strongly that dressing well for certain occasions is a critical mark of respect (don’t get him started on people wearing jeans in church), yet he regularly wears clothing held together with duct tape (I’m not joking). He complains about food that has “too much flavour” (curry stays off the menu when he comes to visit), yet he drinks coffee strong enough to strip varnish.
But perhaps his defining characteristic – which serves to highlight the biggest of contradictions in his life – is his inherent pessimism.
Ask anyone to describe my father and the word pessimist is guaranteed to show up in the opening sentence of the conversation. One gets the sense that his pessimism is obligatory – as if it’s the only way he knows how to exist in the world?
The numbers for the weather hotline are worn bare on his phone touchpad. He also, of course, watches the weather each night on the evening news and checks it daily – multiple times – from his laptop. Regardless of the forecast, he finds reason for dread and impending doom. Nothing but sunny skies? The jet stream is sure to shift at the last moment so we’ll get caught at the beach in a downpour. Rain? That’s a forecast that can only get worse – showers are likely to morph into a Category 4 hurricane, with some lightning thrown in for good measure.
I’m exaggerating here, but only slightly.
Another result of his relentless pessimism? He always assumes something will prevent us from arriving on time, and Dad cannot bear to be late. So he leaves early. Very early. For everything. Once, when I was in high school, we were taking friends to a live performance in a nearby city. We left early (obviously) and, without a clear memory of the logistics, I can virtually guarantee I complained about the nuisance of leaving so far in advance.
Less than 20 minutes after leaving home we had a flat tire. “And this,” he said, with unmistakable triumph in his eyes, “Is why we always leave early.”
So if I learned the art of letter writing from my mother, I was schooled in the art of pessimism by my father. And he was an excellent teacher.
I like to cast my own tendencies under the umbrella of realism, but it’s thinly-veiled pessimism at best. I do what I can to compensate, but realize it’s part of my nature. (And nurture.) But despite his own pessimism, Dad makes space for two exceptions.
- He is in perpetual awe of natural beauty.
- He isn’t pessimistic about me.
nature = optimistic about beauty
Maybe a deep appreciation for nature doesn’t seem like the perfect foil to pessimism but, for my father, the link exists.
He prioritizes time in the natural world and, aside from catastrophizing about the weather forecast, seems to check his pessimism at the forest or river “door”. He has been spending most of his spare time outside since he was a toddler; by the time he was a teenager, he spent most weekends alone – hiking local mountains, cooking over a makeshift firepit, and building lean-tos for overnight shelter. He is still happiest in a canoe with a thermos of hot coffee at his feet, keeping a steady eye on the riverbanks for wildlife.
All of my favourite memories with Dad involve time spent outdoors and I am forever grateful that my own children have been able explore the wild with their grandfather – from canoeing and building bonfires on the beach, to our a foray into maple syrup production. How could anyone be pessimistic while tapping maple trees on a sunny day in March? (Well, actually, Dad was – he told us repeatedly we’d never get enough sap to boil down into syrup. We proved him wrong with 250 mL of home-grown syrup.)
Long before I was a parent myself, Dad took me on overnight camping trips where we listened to baseball games on the radio while looking up at the stars. We cooked bacon and eggs on a propane stove and washed dishes in tiny streams. My Dad took me skating on outdoor lakes and cross-country skiing up the mountain road behind our house. Though money for a rural Baptist minister was in short supply, as long as we had enough for a tank of gas and some sandwiches, Dad was always ready for an outdoor adventure. We’d leave early to get there and he’d fret about the weather but, once we arrived, his unique brand of optimism would shine through.
My absolute favourite memory of my father involves our annual pilgrimage to collect boughs. At some point in his life, Dad learned how to make evergreen wreaths. Each November he would bring me along to tromp through the woods filling bags full of fir branches. The smell was incredible and to this day fresh-cut evergreens are one of my favourite scent profiles.
He’d cut off a handful of branches with his yellow-handled tin snips and I’d hold the bag and follow him through the underbrush. Clip, clip, clip – stash. Clip, clip, clip – stash. I don’t remember talking much; my Dad appreciates solitude even more than I do. In those days, I doubt he imagined one day I’d look back on this annual trek with such deep nostalgia. He loved the woods and his daughter and I like to think it was only natural he combine both into a much-loved ritual. (Also, my mother was quite content to stay at home, not being the “woodsy” type – writing letters perhaps? – and my older siblings would have been working, so now that I think of it, I was probably the only person he could recruit as a helper).
The resulting wreaths were beautiful – and enormous – filling a huge part of the front walls of the sanctuary. He’d also make a giant swag for the rear entry, and birch log candle holders for all the windows. The excitement of the Sunday School Christmas Concert would literally keep me up at night. But before the twinkle lights and ribbons and baubles, all the beauty originated with Dad and me in the woods.
my father has faith in me
Here’s another thing Dad taught me about pessimism – you can suspend it. And he’s always done this for me.
Through nature or nurture (likely a combination of both), I tend toward pessimism and self-doubt. Never were these tendencies on finer display than during my first year of university.
I was a wreck. Constantly worried I was falling behind or, worse, on the path toward failure. The latter, as an 18-year-old, felt like an inconceivable embarrassment that would forever ruin my life.
I would call home in tears, completely overwhelmed, and Dad would listen and tell me things were going to be okay. One horrible Saturday my Mom came to visit and worked for hours to teach me basic Chemistry (every time I hear the terms molarity or molality I’m transported back to homecoming weekend of my freshman year working through endless sample problems on the musty-smelling red-carpeted basement floor of the library with Mom).
And then I did fine. Over and over again things turned out just fine. When I failed a few Chemistry labs, literally nothing bad happened. I managed to ace some midterms and, eventually, wound up loving the class.
At the end of it all – in a pattern that was repeated over and over again – my Dad would simply say: “I knew you’d do well.”
Not in a “Why were you even worried?” way. More as if from one pessimist to another, he was giving me permission: “Go ahead and worry if it helps, but I wasn’t worried. I kept the faith in your ability when you lost yours.”
Even now, with no grades to share, I know that he expects the best from and for me. He gives me the benefit of the doubt and encourages me when I reach out with my own pessimistic thoughts.
This Father’s Day I could tell you how my Dad taught me to paddle a canoe or whittle a stick for roasting marshmallows. But here’s a truth that’s likely less conventional: he also taught me a lot about pessimism. I don’t worry (much) about the weather and I’m rarely early for anything. But I am unmistakably a pessimist. I try to intentionally resist – and for good reason, as pessimism brings a lot of unnecessary suffering into my life. But it’s also a link to my father. A father who modeled pessimism, but also taught me how to appreciate the smell of fir trees, encouraged me to lace up hiking boots to go explore a trail in the woods, and taught me to have faith in others when they might be losing it in themselves.
Happy Father’s, Dad. Thanks for taking me on all those adventures. And I forgive you for always making us leave home so early.
And Happy Father’s Day to my wonderful husband and father-extraordinaire, John, who continually teaches me about the joys of optimistic living.
