Thank you for sharing this. My dad was a carpenter, too, and loved cabinetry. He passed away last month, and I'm still coming to terms with it. Reading this helped some.
What a wonderful tribute to your pa. I love the photo of him. I'm always mesmerised by watching someone create something almost out of nothing. The end result looks great. Thanks for the mention and link to my article.
Hi -- I love this so much. What an amazing memory to have of your father. I actually love writing characters with that same complexity. I wonder if those emotions and that relationship has come through in any of your writing. Also, you will hold something in your hands soon. There is so kick pressure on writers to come out with their next book so fast for branding and name recognition but art doesn’t work that way. Sometimes stories need more time to get told. Xo
This was a lovely piece, Alison. It made me think of my own dad. I lost my dad many years ago. He was a hard rock miner and one of the gentlest men I have known. He was a big man, with a barrel chest, rough working man’s hands and bear-like arms that he would wrap us kids in, making everything seem like it would be ok. His convictions about kindness and lending a hand to those in need ran deep. I remember the frequency with which he brought home out-of work men down on their luck. We kids grumbled about being doubled up to make room for the new addition, but never in my father’s hearing. If there was a hungry mouth, an extra place was set at the table and we shared whatever it was we had. I remember being woken up from a sound sleep one night to sobbing. Bleary-eyed, I wandered down the hall and peered into the kitchen to find my dad and my mother comforting a bloody and battered wife of one of the guys my dad worked with. A few minutes later, the woman’s husband arrived yelling obscenities and banging on the door. My mother stayed withe woman and my dad got up to open the door. I had never seen him so angry. He opened the door but blocked it with his body. I couldn’t see his face, but the woman’s husband stopped mid-sentence. My father’s voice was to low too hear. But the tone was clear. “Don’t you ever do this again, or you’ll be answering to me.” When my dad stepped back to close the door, the man tried to slip in. My father closed the door in his face. That’s when he saw me, and his expression shifted a seething anger that frightened me to the tired end of the day smile. He sent me to sleep with my sister. My bed would be needed.
I too love this article. My dad also was better at showing how much he loved us instead of telling us. We just always knew. He was a farmer/rancher and not a carpenter. But he built me a desk so I had a place to do my homework, write my stories and do my crafts. He gave it to me on my 12th birthday. I still have it and it lives at my daughter's place on Mudge Island. When I touch it, I think of him and how this would not have been an easy project for him to do, but he did it with love. We learn so much from our dads, don't we.
What a lovely tribute to your Dad, Alison.
Alison, I love everything about this piece. Thank you for making your Dad real for us. And for reminding us of the importance of making a good thing.
Thank you for sharing this. My dad was a carpenter, too, and loved cabinetry. He passed away last month, and I'm still coming to terms with it. Reading this helped some.
What a wonderful tribute to your pa. I love the photo of him. I'm always mesmerised by watching someone create something almost out of nothing. The end result looks great. Thanks for the mention and link to my article.
Hi -- I love this so much. What an amazing memory to have of your father. I actually love writing characters with that same complexity. I wonder if those emotions and that relationship has come through in any of your writing. Also, you will hold something in your hands soon. There is so kick pressure on writers to come out with their next book so fast for branding and name recognition but art doesn’t work that way. Sometimes stories need more time to get told. Xo
This was a lovely piece, Alison. It made me think of my own dad. I lost my dad many years ago. He was a hard rock miner and one of the gentlest men I have known. He was a big man, with a barrel chest, rough working man’s hands and bear-like arms that he would wrap us kids in, making everything seem like it would be ok. His convictions about kindness and lending a hand to those in need ran deep. I remember the frequency with which he brought home out-of work men down on their luck. We kids grumbled about being doubled up to make room for the new addition, but never in my father’s hearing. If there was a hungry mouth, an extra place was set at the table and we shared whatever it was we had. I remember being woken up from a sound sleep one night to sobbing. Bleary-eyed, I wandered down the hall and peered into the kitchen to find my dad and my mother comforting a bloody and battered wife of one of the guys my dad worked with. A few minutes later, the woman’s husband arrived yelling obscenities and banging on the door. My mother stayed withe woman and my dad got up to open the door. I had never seen him so angry. He opened the door but blocked it with his body. I couldn’t see his face, but the woman’s husband stopped mid-sentence. My father’s voice was to low too hear. But the tone was clear. “Don’t you ever do this again, or you’ll be answering to me.” When my dad stepped back to close the door, the man tried to slip in. My father closed the door in his face. That’s when he saw me, and his expression shifted a seething anger that frightened me to the tired end of the day smile. He sent me to sleep with my sister. My bed would be needed.
Hadn’t thought about that for years. Thank you.
Narcissism is to do with reflecting unduly on one’s self. Not looking per se.
I too love this article. My dad also was better at showing how much he loved us instead of telling us. We just always knew. He was a farmer/rancher and not a carpenter. But he built me a desk so I had a place to do my homework, write my stories and do my crafts. He gave it to me on my 12th birthday. I still have it and it lives at my daughter's place on Mudge Island. When I touch it, I think of him and how this would not have been an easy project for him to do, but he did it with love. We learn so much from our dads, don't we.