My dad

My dad has the most beautiful eyes. They are a lovely blue, like a clear sky. Though Mom would never go into details about falling in love, she does talk about Dad's eyes, and her hopes that their children would inherit them. One did; though he is now gone, his beautiful blue eyes live on in both his daughter's faces.

I haven't asked in a long time, but I used to ask Dad to take his glasses off so I could take a good look at those eyes and enjoy them.

When he mentioned, quite casually, this past July, that he was having some trouble with one of his eyes, I snapped to attention. We were sitting in the arrivals area of the Winnipeg airport, waiting for my eldest brother to join us. In Dad's regular matter-of-fact way, he described what he called "venetian blinds" that would slowly block out all vision in one of his eyes, stay closed for 5 minutes or so, then open again.

That was the beginning of another medical saga for Dad. We're still in the middle of it, but he eventually got to an ultrasound department where the blockages in his carotid arteries were probed, photographed, and documented. We're into a new chapter now, a chapter where he has medical appointments on a regular basis, with a bunch of different varieties of docs.

Dad is one of those guys who just wasn't getting old. Until the age of 82, I really can't say there was any indication of his age showing on his body. Dad retired from farming more than 20 years ago, packed up, and moved to town along with most of our farming neighbors. For the first year, he puttered around and didn't quite know what to do with himself. We worried, but were happy that their house in town had a double garage and a shop. The double garage meant he had a place for the truck, and the shop meant there was a place for tools. The yard is big enough for the huge garden that gets planted every year, Dad getting the soil ready with the tiller, and Mom hoping that he stays away from the areas sheltering the perennials.

Dad started volunteering at the Thrift Shop after he retired from farming. This was a full-time passion for many years. If you can plug it in, Dad can fix it. I don't know if any of us have ever bought a new vacuum cleaner; Dad was always putting pieces together to make functional vacuums out of discarded ones. My idea of shopping for small kitchen appliances is "Dad, can you get me a slow cooker with a removable pot?"

One of the things I've always enjoyed teasing Dad about is his name.

Abraham.

Father of many.

No kidding.

A few summers ago, we realized that all eight of us offspring were home at the same time. We lined ourselves up in the same arrangement as our 1972 Walt's Studio family picture.

Abraham is a great dad. The best, in fact. I feel selfish in wanting him around forever. There's so much more of Dad that I'd like rubbed off on me. As the years have gone by, Dad has become friends with his adult children. He cries in front of us. He thanks us often for loving him and Mom like we do. As the inevitability of age has begun to leave its mark on his body, he is taking these changes with grace and dignity.

Though the view may change, Dad's eyes are still the most beautiful I've ever seen.

I love you, Dad.