Am one and got one.
My old man was blitzed as a child, immigrated in his mid-20s, raised a family while making a career change to the ministry, dragged us around Altantic Canada homes and travelling around North America and the UK growing up including Stonehenge (as illustrated), tag-teamed with Mom on we wee three to read like madmen (the one lifeskill which brings success) as his socialist politician mom taught him when she bought the first Penguins as they came out monthly, watched me and pushed me to play basketball, football, soccer and even, oddly, one season of baseball in grade four – they throw that thing right at your head!. I still clearly recall in undergrad soccer at “The Pit” in the north end of Halifax hitting the cross-bar with a massive crack at goal from way beyond where I should have thought possible, turning around and seeing him on the ridge with his face in his hands over the “almost, almost” of it. In recent years, I have been impressed with my father as something of a medical marvel, having survived a number of thingies that are the sorts of thingies that scare the hell out of you. And did it with a certain plucky easy style that you really would think would come with being a man of the cloth but maybe you never thought would play out when the rubber hits the road…for the third time. From my Dad I can quickly see I have got a love of sport – both playing and watching – a healthy distaste for a certain sort of political theory of the few as well as reliance on humour in formal situations – not to mention the importance of a wee bickie with your tea. Critical things.
Rolling all that up, he being 1500 km east shivering at the cottage in frosty PEI as he reported on the phone last night, I am making my own demands clear amongst my own here and we are off on an international junket, going to see the 4-1 but oddly yellow Watertown Wizards take on the Saratoga Phillies, who actually play on the Doubleday field at Cooperstown which is kind of cool. After that we are in search of frozen custard and I have a couple of leads already. Dinner perhaps at Sackets Harbour Brewing or maybe back to Attilo’s pizza in Clayton. Back across the border with a stack of Sunday papers and maybe a growler. It is a tough old life.