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June 19, 2005
On Father's Day
Today I cried for my dad.
It’s Father’s Day and I miss him so very much. I still can’t believe he is gone.
I remember the first time I saw him cry. We were visiting my grandfather’s farm in Vredefort, South Africa.
I was the first to wake up that morning roused by the light of a beautiful African sunrise and the haunting cry of a flock of Hadedah's flying overhead.
My grandfather’s farmhouse was abandoned and almost in ruins when he bought it. He consulted with the local Historical Society and rebuilt the house as it had been in the late 1800’s. It was beautiful. The magnificence of the white house surrounded by sweet-smelling Frangipani trees and honeysuckle bushes made an indelible impression, even on a five-year-old child.
I dressed and left the house before anyone else in the family had awakened. I climbed out of the window for fear of waking everyone up. My puppy Pogo followed right behind me and we both disappeared into the bushes surrounding the house. After thrashing around under the window, we eventually managed to fight our way towards the barn where I loved to play and explore.
Both my father and grandfather came out a little later and helped me to build a fort out of cardboard boxes. Every so often, my mother would tap on the window and wave at us. That was one of the happiest days of my life, until I disturbed a snake in the corner of the barn. I screamed and ran. Pogo was not so lucky. She went for the snake and got bitten on the neck. I remember her yelping and instantly collapsing. Her legs twitching as she lay whimpering against the wall of the barn.
My grandfather killed the snake with a shovel.
I wanted to comfort the dog but my father picked me up and carried me inside while my grandfather tried to help the dog.
My mother called the animal clinic, but it was a Sunday and no one could be reached.
I cried hysterically, desperately wanting to go out and see my dog, but my mother took me upstairs and kept me in the bedroom. Downstairs I could hear my father and grandfather speaking in urgent tones. Then everything was quiet.
The shotgun blast made my mother jump. I broke away from her, and ran down the stairs, meeting my father as he came in from outside. He picked me up and enveloped me with his arms. He had tears in his eyes.
I had never seen my father cry before.
“Trev,” he said, putting his forehead against mine. “We had to shoot Pogo. He didn’t suffer. It was very quick.”
“No,” I said sobbing. “Please don’t let Pogo die dad, he’s my friend.”
“He’s not in pain anymore,” said my father, pulling me into his body. I saw my mother over his shoulder. She was standing in the hall with her hand to her mouth.
“Can I go get her?” I sobbed. “All she needs is some milk.”
“Pogo is dead, Trev,” said my father, softly.
I was too young to understand why they had to shoot the animal. I think that particular day was one of the first times I can remember losing my temper. I leaned back and hit my father’s chest with my balled up fists.
“It’s okay, Trev, It’s okay,” he said calmly and softly as tears streamed down his cheeks.
He pulled me into his chest again.
“I’m so sorry my boy,” he said. “I am so sorry.”
Swimming in tears I saw my father’s loved for me radiating from his hazel eyes. I put my arms around his neck and held him for all I was worth.
I continue to hold him...in my heart.
“Happy father’s day, dad. Tell Pogo I said hi.”
Posted by trevor at June 19, 2005 05:34 PM
Comments
Trevor. I wanted to let you know that I checked your site today to specifically see how you'd handle this.
The first time I read your blog was an entery about how much you miss your dad. I expected no different today.
I just wanted to visit and say that he knows how much you love him and you care. Love is one of the best emotions we're comprised of as humans.
It's nice to see that you're already aware of that.
(Sorry for the slow down in my responses. I read daily, but i've started my own blog that I update daily, and maintaining it takes a slew of time as you know.)
Happy Fathers day.
Big Harry
Posted by: Big Harry H at June 19, 2005 09:18 PM
Trevor,
My thoughts are with you...my mom died three years ago, and I still think about her every day. It leaves a big space in your heart.
Hope it helps to know other people are sending you positive thoughts.
Julie
Posted by: Julie at June 19, 2005 09:28 PM
Trevor that is so sad but poignant. Your father was a very good man. He obviously didn't like seeing anything suffer, especially his son.
Did you get another dog?
Terri.
Posted by: Terri at June 20, 2005 03:37 AM
Thank you very much for sharing those beautiful words about your father. I too am still missing my father very much.... and it was wonderful for me to hear your words and share in the celebration of love. It comforted me with warmth and I thank you for that.
Posted by: Jennifer at June 20, 2005 04:44 AM
Oh.
*sniff*
Puts down her canteloupe and holds her kitties.
I am happy and sad all at once.
You do that to me, ya know...
Scary, that.
I am glad you had such a cohesive love with your father. Mine was more of a patchwork of grace and patience and forced forgetfulness. Anger wove it's way through, and disqust, as well. It took years for me to drop my judgements about how he chose to live and die. And why he chose to leave my family when I was so very small.
It took a long time to learn about narcissism. And the diseases of the soul that took the best of him and shriveled what remants were left.
Thank you for continuing to teach me about loving.
J.
Posted by: Julia at June 20, 2005 08:07 AM
I came upon your blog by mistake -- I was looking for illustrations to steal for a birthday card. I found your story about the dog and the snake, and your relating it to the loss of your father.
This is an incredibly touching story, even though I'm too old to be touched by anything anymore. I volunteer at the Children's Bereavement Center in San Antonio, and our kids have to deal with things that are too hard even for adults.
I hope you turn this into a book with the same illustrations you have here. Children, even old ones like me, would identify with your people. The warmth between the father and son is so real and palpable. Adults suffer when they lose that kind of relationship, but children feel it so much deeper and longer. Even when the rest of us think they are OK.
Your work is really good stuff.
Posted by: Lucie at August 27, 2006 06:18 PM