Father Husband Best Friend

As I write this, we're in the middle of our first real snowfall of the season. As I slipped around driving to work and back, it brought back childhood memories of winter driving with Dad. Note - I do NOT recommend driving without winter tires in the winter!

I don't remember us ever having winter tires through my childhood. Mom and Dad had a little parade of inexpensive Volkswagens - a Beetle, quickly traded up for a VW Van, and then again for a VW Westphalia (with the pop-top camper). As you know from my previous stories, Mom and Dad were always strapped for cash... so luxuries - which included winter tires - were out. 

Dad's rationale, when I talked to him later, went like this. The VW Vans are rear-engine, rear-wheel drive. So this means the weight of the (very small and underpowered air-cooled) engine is right over the back tires, giving it more traction than most other vehicles. Dad would proudly remind me of that times when the VW van made it, and other heavier pickups didn't. Out of necessity he always had tire chains in the back of the VW, and many winter hours would be spent at the side of the road as Dad put the chains on or took them off. 

The other most common traction-aid after tires, in an emergency, were tree branches. If you get stuck, go cut some bushy branches off a nearby tree, and feed them under the tires. This is best as a 2-person job, and I remember because as the non-driver, I would have the honour of being the branches-under-the-tires-pusher. 

The VW vans became almost human-like characters in my childhood. All the crazy repairs Dad had to do to them to keep them running, using whatever household objects would do the job. At some point, when I was around age 5, I was introduced to the character Chitty-chitty-bang-bang, through a storybook. I became convinced that our VW was our very own Chitty-chitty-bang-bang.

When I was 6 we made the big move to High Level, and this was the town where we were all introduced to real winter. True arctic cold. It is also the place I was formally introduced to bullying at school and around town. We stood out like sore thumbs as poor people in town - highlighted by our old, barely running van, my old single-speed bike, and our second-hand clothes. I remember being in the VW van through driving snow, both Mom and Dad in the front, and a boy around my age was with us. He made comments about our old van and how much nicer their vehicles were. I remember scrambling for something- anything- that exonerated our van. I settled on the mysterious knobs in the middle of the front dash, and proudly lied to him that pulling the knobs would cause all sorts of Chitty-chitty-bang-bang magic to happen - wings would pop out, even a police light might pop out of the top! His eyes widened with amazement and he went quiet. I was terrified Dad would correct my fantasy-based lies, but instead he glanced over and broke out into a big smile, and then he gave a amused look at Mom, then his eyes went back to the snow-drifted road. 

A few years later, when I was around 11, Mom and Dad splurged on a vehicle. It was a 3rd-hand ex-Ministry of Highways pickup truck, still painted Highways department yellow. It had been converted to propane as part of a federal experiment, and it had retired to a farm where it was used to move bales of hay and do other farm chores. It was a very early 80s Dodge Ram crew cab, 2wd pickup truck with a 3-speed auto transmission. Dad was beaming with pride when we picked up this truck. It was in excellent condition and ended up being a very reliable Dodge.

In lieu of winter tires for this truck, Dad opted for a load of sand bags over each wheel well in the bed of the truck. For a year or so we had both the van and the truck, and Dad would still favour the VW on some winter days, claiming it was the next best thing to a 4x4. 

This "new" truck also coincided with a new school, and new bullies who would immediately recognize our old funny looking vehicles and hand-me-down clothes. Our first winter with the Dodge, I am hanging out with kids in the neighbourhood. One of them, his dad just put new winter tires on their truck. He brings us over to show off the tires, and then transitions to telling everyone how our family is so poor, we can't even afford winter tires for our Dodge. Being my father's son, I had studied all the features of our old truck and had quickly armed myself with fantasy-based comebacks. I invited all of them to come over to compare winter tires, and they did. 

I faked pride in our very-used tires that came with our very-used truck. Today, we would call these tires "All Terrain" - they are knobby, with some deep meaty treads. Or, in this case, they used to be deep but had been long worn down after years of all-season use. I explained how the middle (worn down part) of the tire helps us go faster, and the remaining knobs around the edges helped us grip going around corners. One of the younger kids' eyes widened in amazement and he declared that our worn-out AT tires were indeed better than the brand new tires of our neighbour. The other kids started murmuring in agreement. 

I don't remember Dad ever getting proper winters for the truck. As far as I know, those all terrain tires worked well enough, and if he got tires, I am certain he found a good deal on some used ones somewhere. Back then, good deals could still be found. 

It is actually quite amazing how much Dad was able to get done in the winter without proper winter tires. He did put in the extra effort to have chains, which were a must on the snow, slush, and icy roads. He was also a careful driver. I don't remember any accidents or being stranded in the winter (there was one when I was a baby). With the truck we did multiple firewood gathering missions. We always managed to make it to the stores when needed, and we always ultimately made it to where we needed to go. 

When I was 14 both Mom and Dad were working and were making fair wages. The finally splurged on a "new" vehicle, this one only second-hand, a GMC van - and not even that old! A new town, one without a lot of snow in the winter. New schools, new bullies. But with our never vehicle and newer clothes, bullies targeted other things. With money came... proper winter tires. Driving suddenly became safer, warmer, and infinitely less interesting. No more chains, no more pushing branches under tires. 

Love you dad, miss you so much. 

Our dodge looked a lot like this one

Dad hated zucchini. Refused to eat it.

He didn't always though. I asked him why and the story went like this.

In his early 20s, dad was a journeyman carpenter - just in time for the massive recession, and no jobs for carpenters. He found a job "teaching" at a very small Highschool up in Kitwanga, BC - initially in his trade, which was woodworking. Because he wasn't trained as a teacher, he was paid essentially minimum wage, and allowed to teach on a "letter of permission" from the Superintendent. 

There were problems. Namely, nowhere to live, and no money to buy food. He had to find ways to make it with moving and paying student debt, a toddler (me) and a new baby due any day (Rebekah).

Dad said the owner of the Kitwanga General Store was very generous and gave him a $300 line of credit there for groceries. This was enough for staples - flour, sugar, oil, tea, etc. Now they needed a place to live.

For finding a place to live, Dad lined up a cabin, which was a chicken coop for a while, and was now a cabin again. Very rustic, very basic, and most importantly - very cheap. 

Photo gallery of the "chicken coop" below, these from 2019. In 2019 it was literally on it's last legs - the foundation had mostly eroded and it was on the verge of collapse. 

The cabin was on a farm, and in Cedarvale, a small community along the Skeena only a few minutes southwest of Kitwanga. Word got out the Mom and Dad - and their small children - needed some food. So, as Dad told the story, a farmer generously donated a small mountain of zucchini squash. 

"Zucchini pancakes, zucchini bread, fried zucchini, baked zucchini... we cooked and prepared zucchini in every known possible way." - quote, dad.

"I never ever want to see another Zucchini ever again" - also quote dad.

"Get that zucchini out of my face" - dad, too

The combination of the line of credit and the mountain of Zucchini got my family through a couple of months of hardship until Dad's low-wage paycheques started rolling in. I don't remember him complaining about Zucchini when I was a kid (we weren't allowed to complain, so he had to lead by example, lol) but when we got bigger, he started refusing to touch Zucchini anything, and then this story came out. 

I've been meaning to tell it for a while. When I see the funny summer Zucchini memes I always think of dad, who made a meme out of Zucchinis before that was even a thing. 

Here is a photo of Noah, with one of his fav veggies to grow... Zucchinis :) 

Growing up, Dad was pretty anti-TV. He was strict about us not wasting our lives in front of screens - perhaps an easier battle than in today's world. He had an exception though - Friday nights. When we moved to Hazelton from High Level, Dad had a job again as a high school teacher, and access to some school equipment - namely the old VHS players and TVs. The school principals would allow Dad to bring home the ugliest, crappiest, oldest player and TV after work on Friday as long as no one noticed and he brought it back first thing on Monday. I suppose the idea was, if my Dad broke it, no one would really notice or care.

Looking back on it, this would have been quite the chore. The player and TV were nothing like modern-day panels and players - the photo here is of the actual VHS player he'd bring home. It was top-loading and gigantic - a "dinosaur" as Dad called it. He'd have to lug that darn thing plus the TV into the van, then unload at our house. It didn't stop there - as a no-TV family, our living room wasn't set up for show-watching - so he'd re-arrange the furniture, and set it all up. 

One of our favourite things was getting to go to the video rental store on Friday, where we'd debate and try and convince each other to rent a certain movie or favourite show. Occasionally Dad would choose a movie. We'd gather up the rentals and head back home in a state of excitement. 

Us kids would gather up around the TV, sometimes on the couch but often sitting on the floor in front of the couch. As the oldest, I often had the pleasure of putting the VHS tape in and getting it running (sometimes having to rewind the tape first). Dad would often make popcorn in a massive bread bowl as we started watching our chosen movie, and then bring it in for us. 

Sometimes if the show was interesting (he had a soft spot for Disney movies, and anything silly or off-colour) he would come join us, laying on the floor, sometimes with kids piled on top of him. It was in this environment, and with this old VCR that he first introduced us to Star Wars properly - and that original trilogy became one of my favorites. One of his favorite movies of all time was inspector Clouseau - he would howl with laughter, sometimes laughing so hard he would literally be ROFTL. One of my motivations for becoming employed ASAP (age 10) was to have a few extra dollars in my pocket to rent my own movies. 

Friday nights were special, and they'd often be followed up by Saturday morning breakfast - pancakes or Dad's famous grain cake with homemade syrup. 

I am happy to report that we mostly followed this model - we at times have been quite strict with our kids and screens, including allowing only 1 "screen night" per week. I am writing this because I was away on a long trip, came home, and we just had a Friday night movie night that felt very familiar. 

The difference is that I have it much easier - no lugging around dinosaurs so my kids can enjoy their Friday night movie :) 

I woke up this morning and realized - oh my gosh, I haven't done a post about Dad and his love of Tennis! When Bianca Andreescu had her amazing season and won the US Open, I thought - Dad would have LOVED that. Tennis was one of those rare indulgences he'd have if there was a great storyline happening - a crazy personality doing crazy stuff, an underdog going for the top, or an ancient rivalry playing out. Originally Dad played Tennis, and as I would find out, was a really good tennis player. 

Dad's Dad William (Bill) Beaton suffered a heart event while playing Tennis in Victoria at the age of 59. He then slid into a coma and passed away. Dad mentioned this to me a couple times when I'd ask for the details of my grandfather's death, but it never seemed to really impact his love and passion for the game in the way you might imagine.

There was infrequent TV watching in our household growing up, but exceptions would be made for the occasional must-watch tennis match. I loved watching Dad watch the game more than the game itself - he would hoot, holler, and exclaim while watching, and sometimes offer entertaining commentary. 

When Dad's Mom Marian was sick with cancer and in a wheelchair, I asked her what she'd like to do before she passed away. She thought for a minute and then shocked me by saying "I would love to see your Dad play tennis, just one last time." I asked why, and she said she used to love watching him play his heart out. I seem to recall a story or two about some epic Tennis battles Dad had with his Dad, until he finally was able to defeat him.

Dad was always super humble about his Tennis abilities around me, he never ever boasted or told personal stories about his personal Tennis battles with rivals, or his rise to Tennis fame in the family. I do remember seeing him playing once as a little kid, and seeing him flash around the court - but not knowing what was going on. When it finally wrapped up, I asked him "who won?" and he just said "I did" and we moved on. 

For a big chunk of our lives, we lived away from Tennis courts. When I was a teenager we moved to the Victoria area, and Dad introduced me to Tennis. He taught me how to serve and all the basics of volleying forehand and backhand. I should tell you I felt pretty horrible about my skills, and Dad was patient and always mildly encouraging. It is also worth noting that Dad never really "went easy" on me. He never "let" me win like some parents do with their kids (me). I didn't manage to win a single set against him. Once I remember *almost* winning a set, and him grinning and encouraging me, as he defeated me yet again and took the game 5-0, again. I also remember that he always seemed to be in the right place at the right time, and his skills seemed god-like.

I never managed to beat my Dad in Tennis. When I was 15 he started to lose one of his major nerves, and he progressively lost the use of one of his lungs until it was actually working against his other lung. The only time I got to see him in his glory (playing against other good players) was when I was in my early 20s. He was living in Duncan and had joined a weekly Tennis club at the bubble. I had been practicing daily with a Tennis friend, who was also very good. I was getting better and better (and was fit), so thought I was finally ready to share a court with my Dad. I bought a super nice expensive racket, and joined the same club in Duncan.

Those days are some of my favourite memories - I would drive the nearly hour there and back to play once a week, and I got to see my Dad play amazing Tennis - on only one lung. He had a very powerful forehand, and a backhand seemed to stretch for miles. He played very strategically and always seemed to be in the right place. The couples teams would be random, but if you won you moved up a court, and if you lost, you moved down. Dad always seemed to be playing up court. Other skilled players respected him. A few times I got to play with him, and sometimes against him, and it was so much fun. I loved it. I loved it because I got to see him play up close, and also because he was a fierce competitor who was never unkind.

Seeing him play with his peers helped my understand why it was such a part of his life. He was skilled and he loved the game. I haven't played tennis much at all since those days in the bubble, but am reminded of him every time I see a Tennis headline in the news. Much love, Jacob.

Hi Everyone, I posted this on my Facebook profile this morning, here it is if you'd like to read my thoughts about Dad on his birthday. Love, Jacob.

How normal is dropping in? Dad would drop in unannounced on friends, family, and acquaintances. He'd revel in surprise - dropping in on an acquaintance or family member who least expected a VW van with Dad and his family to roll up to their doorstep. Dropping in was a two-way street though, he'd also whole-heartedly welcome people who would drop in on us. Growing up as a kid, I thought this was normal - I thought everyone did this. 

We'd travel a lot. I'd lived in more than one house for every year of my life by the time I was 12, so there was the moving house kind of travel. On top of that there was the summer travel, when we'd be off so Dad could complete summer school, or so we could connect with family. We never stayed in hotels, so it was either camping, or sleeping in the basement of some unsuspecting host. 

Dad would become impishly happy in the hours and minutes prior to surprising someone. Sometimes it was a churchfellow who'd moved and given Dad their new address saying "if you're ever in the area, drop by!" Or a workfellow, like another teacher. Or a childhood friend. This happened many times. I can count at least a half dozen clear memories from when I was small of dropping in and staying overnight before moving on and pretty much never seeing those hosts again.

To be fair, sometimes Dad had called ahead, but he loved to under-promise and over-deliver - in other words, he loved to surprise you by showing up a day early. So he's say "we should be there Saturday night" and then Dad would gleefully show up on a Friday night. What a rebel.

I want to share with you a couple special memories I have about dropping in on Dad.

In the first memory,  I was 18 or 19 and was living in Vancouver. For some reason I now forget, I'd arrived in Victoria super early in the morning, and I knew Dad would just be getting up. I also knew he left his doors unlocked. So I snuck in - gleefully I might add - and discovered he was in the shower. Perfect. So I hid outside the door, and when he opened it I leapt out at him like an angry bear. Totally worth it. I remember him grinning ear to ear so pleased I was there (after the shock and adrenaline rush had subsided of course).

A few years later Dad was living in Duncan. I happened to be in town, helping the Cowichan Tribes with their pitch to host the North American Indigenous Games. The pitch went late, and a couple of the out-of-town celebrities that the Tribes had hired to help with the presentation ended up being locked out of their Hotel. I heard about it, and feeling out of options, dropped by Dad's house with the out-of-towners who needed a place to sleep. I had to wake Dad up. Despite the tiredness and surprise, Dad was super happy and welcoming, kind of shocking the guests with his kindness, and perhaps his bare-chested typical lack of clothing ;)  

We woke up the next morning, and Dad had cooked us a big breakfast feast. I remember the guests looking at me, shocked that he'd done so much. In that moment I felt like a wealthy guy, as they looked at me like I was the luckiest to have such a welcoming, giving Dad.

I inherited Dad's welcoming - we had a record number of visitors and drop-ins this year at our farm - and I love to cook for masses. I didn't take on the dropping in part. Poor planning? Sometimes, yea, that's me. I don't drop in unnounced anymore though. It's too nerve-wracking, and I'm not bombastic enough to make myself welcome the way Dad seemed to be able to. 

As I grew up into an adult, it gradually dawned on me how abnormal Dad's dropping in behaviour was. It really isn't done. But Dad was abnormal in many ways - he was generous to a fault. He got to know his neighbours no matter where we lived. And his doors were literally always open to weary travellers and other guests.

Did Dad ever drop in on you and surprise you? I'd love to hear about it.

When we moved back to Hazelton from High Level in the late 80s, Dad had a job teaching at the alternate school in 2-Mile. He was one of two teachers, the other was the admin, and the small school was basically split in half between them. He would have been around 32 years old. He got a homemade root beer making kit from somewhere, collected up some used 2 litres, and got to making root beer as an educational activity. 

Here on the farm the boys and I have made our first forays into fermenting food. I've learned that naturally fermented food creates carbon dioxide, and if you limit it to a sealed bottle, that carbon dioxide dissolves into the liquid as the pressure in the bottle increases. Experienced brewers will put the fermented brew into the bottles at just the right time, so that the pressure isn't so high that it will explode the bottle. Dad was not an experienced brewer. At all.

Normally when you open a carbonated drink - like a can of beer or pop - there's a little hiss as the extra pressure escapes, then you can go ahead and enjoy the fizzy drink. Something went a bit wrong with Dad's brew, because the 2-litre bottles became *extremely* pressurized. I looked it up, and modern plastic 2 litres max out around 150 PSI - to compare, your car tire probably has around 35 PSI in it. When you opened one of Dad's homemade root beer bottles, you had to hang on for dear life. It must have been up around the limit of the bottle.

Dad absolutely DELIGHTED in the difficulty and drama of opening his homemade root beer. He'd devised a method where the 2 litre would sit in a big mixing bowl. One person would unscrew the lid, while another would hold a large measuring cup (4 cups or larger), facing down, over top. As the cap came off, all the pressurized homemade pop would explode out the bottle, and shoot upward with incredible force. The person holding the measuring cup would need to keep a death grip until the bottle depressurized. The rocket stream of pop would hit the inside of the measuring cup, and flow back down into the mixing bowl. Afterward most of the pop would be in the mixing bowl, and a small amount would be left in the bottle. To get a rough idea of what this is like, check out Mentos + Coke fun.

Dad's favourite story was when he first brought the "finished" brew into school, and had the students help him open it. He had a student holding the measuring cup while the cap was unscrewed. When the pop exploded out and hit the measuring cup, the student screamed, let go, and ran away. By his telling, the force was so strong that it blasted the large measuring cup all the way up to the ceiling. The root beer mushroomed against the ceiling before calming down. He would proudly proclaim that the root beer stain is still on the ceiling of the alternate school to this day - and to the best of my knowledge, it still is! The last time I was in there a number of years ago, I was able to find the stain quite easily, and it was quite large - larger than a dinner plate.

Unfortunately I don't recall Dad attempting any more home brew after that, other than some strange miracle mushroom ferment, but that is another story. The exploding root beer at school was one of his many favourite stories to tell.