DADDY'S CHAIR


Any male can be a father but it takes a special man to be a Dad.

In memory of my father, who passed away August 26, 1981.

I walk into my mother's house. The first thing I see is Dad's chair. An old wooden chair with four rungs in the back, the white paint cracked and chipped. The seat is polished smooth from years of wear. Not pretty by any means, but Dad's chair.

As I stand by the counter sipping a cup of tea, my mind slips back to my childhood. If he got home from work before we were in bed, I'd scramble onto his knee for a rare moment of closeness. At these times, he usually told us a story or two about his life.

My Dad was the middle child in a family of eight. A rebellious boy, he left home at age fourteen with a friend. Together they traveled across Canada and the United States, seeking their fortune and of course adventure.

Oh, the stories he told at those times. Cowboy stories - experiences I could only dream of. Riding line on a ranch in British Columbia, through blizzards and storms in subzero temperatures, the snow as high as the horse's chest, a bunk to sleep on and a stone fireplace for heat. Not seeing a single soul for months on end, his only companion his loyal horse. He depended on that horse for transportation and shared his cabin with him. Eating only what was provided by nature for meat, with a supplement of dried beans, sour dough and beef jerky.

One of his best stories was about his favorite horse, Satan. A pure black stallion, he had once run free with a herd of wild horses on the open prairie. Not wanting to release his hold on that wild freedom, Satan never liked to be controlled by human hands. He'd stand quietly by as Dad put the blanket and saddle on his back. When it was time to take the bit in his mouth, he'd shy away, stamping his feet in protest. The real ritual began when my dad's foot hit the stirrup. Satan would rear, neighing his protest shrilly. As Dad hit the saddle, the fight was on. Satan would begin bucking for all he was worth, coming down stiff-legged, and trying to unseat him. Every morning as long as Dad owned him, this was the procedure. Satan was stubborn and Dad was very determined. Neither would let the other beat him.

The copyright of the article DADDY'S CHAIR in Canadian Tourism is owned by Mary M. Alward. Permission to republish DADDY'S CHAIR in print or online must be granted by the author in writing.

Go To Page: 1 2 3 4

Articles in this Topic    Discussions in this Topic