My Hero, My Dad

My Hero, My Dad

Suzanne Marsh

Dad taught me so many things about life and about myself. Being an only child, my mom wanted a well-bred Christian young lady. I never did fit either of those, with dad’s help. I learned to shoot a bow and arrow. Dad made my first bow, and then I learned to use it. During the winter, we would shoot the arrows down in the basement; that was all well and good until an arrow went through the basement window. Dad was the culprit. Mom was angry; she thought I should be learning domestic skills from her. Dad then decided we could throw darts at the target, a bale of straw. I put the dart through the window. Once again, mom was agitated, her face was as red as her hair. That was when dad became my hero.

Dad had wanted a son; I was the only child they had. I had so many good times with my dad. I don’t know where to start. I suppose that is why I was such a tomboy, and why I got into trouble a good deal of my time growing up.

Dad had it rough since Mom worked; he had to take me wherever I needed to go. I was in Girl Scouts; dad was the only male who drove four giggling girls to the movies to see Ben-Hur. Dad was not a Charlton Heston fan to begin with, but three hours taxed him. That was not the worst ever Saturday morning. Dad took me to a roller skating rink, once again, he was the only dad there. I can not imagine how awkward it was to be the only male present; I did not realize as a child just how difficult it must have been for Dad. He was my hero.

Saturday afternoon, there was a TV show that dad and I watched, which was Tales of the Texas Rangers; I also loved Fury. My birthday that year was very special. Dad, the old Brooklyn Cowboy, took me horseback riding. Western saddles were the bane of my existence and dad’s; we both came home saddle sore! Dad took me every Saturday morning horseback riding at One Hundred Acres. I learned to ride a western saddle but never enjoyed it. Then the Riders Club found Foxhall, and I learned to ride an English saddle, which is actually safer than a western saddle. Once agai,n Dad was the only male parent there.

I have never been a morning person; to this day, I can hear Dad yelling at the foot of the stairs:

“Are you up yet?” I would yell down that I was up, but chances were, especially in the winter, I was either standing in front of the heater or still trying to warm up under the covers. Dad had to leave for work at seven forty-five in the morning, which meant that I had to be downstairs, dressed and ready to go or take the bus. I opted for going with Dad; he dropped me off at the front door of the school.

My dad suffered through my teenage years with a great deal of stoicism. I was not the nicest person at that point. Dad did not like my friends, so those were the ones I hung with. When I look back, I know my dad was right.

I wanted to learn to play a musical instrument, mom decided on an accordion. I hated that instrument; it either pinched my chin or my knees. I also learned to play the piano, which I still play. The piano introduced me to a horrible word: ‘practice’. I was having problems with the Blue Danube, a piece I loved and hated at the same time. I was late for my piano lesson, I was frustrated, and accidentally ripped half the page. Dad tried to hustle me, that was a mistake; my piano teacher, an elderly lady with blue and a great deal of patience.

The year I turned sixteen, Dad was beside himself. We went to the country fair, and there I met a gentleman who taught me to play the bagpipes. The bagpipes are not for the faint of heart. I was determined I was going to learn. I began bagpipe lessons, dad drove me over to the man’s house. Dad could not really understand some of what I was being taught since the man was from Scotland, and some of the words were pronounced a bit differently. The lessons progressed, and after nine months, I was ready to play a few simple tunes. I also joined a pipe band, bearing in mind that women were not allowed to play pipes in the States, so I played with the Clan Cameron Pipe Band out of Ridgeway, Ontario. Dad always enjoyed photography; he took pictures, but I was out of step. Later that day, he sat me down, showed me the photographs. He then decided to teach me to march; I should add that coordination is not my strong suit. We went outside, Dad had me strike in the pipes, then in his best Warrant Officer’s voice, the bagpipes squirlling. It was a sight to behold.

Dad was a World War Two veteran; he talked about his friends and soldiers he knew, but never about the war. I knew he had been in Holland, France, and Germany, but had no idea he had been involved in the Battle of the Bulge.

I was young and stupid, and I found myself pregnant at the ripe old age of seventeen. Dad was so angry that he would not talk to me for two weeks. I was determined to get married, have a child, and live happily ever after. Things simply did not work out that way; my first marriage ended in divorce. I am so thankful for my dad, during this time; he truly was my hero throughout the entire ordeal. I remarried and found happiness. Dad and I were still at loggerheads, but that got better.

There have been times when I wish I had not done things the way I did, but Dad was always there to pick up the pieces of my shattered life.

Dad passed away on February 27, 2000. I never had a chance to say goodbye; I was in Louisiana. I cried most of the way home; my dad, my hero, was taken away from me. I miss talking to him, doing the crossword puzzle with him, but most of all I miss him.