Our parents leave us with many gifts – from their DNA to their ways of bringing us up, habits, perhaps prejudices, philosophies, ethics, and sometimes property or money. Both my parents are dead now, but I think of them often, and I have come to recognize and appreciate the personal gifts they left me.
My parents both read a lot and encouraged their children to
do the same by telling stories, reading to us, and buying books for us even
when there wasn’t much money for extras. I confess to being a voracious reader
and I loved it when my father suggested books to me even after I’d become an
adult (Humboldt’s Cosmos; and a book about the matriarchal Mosou of China). I
also loved to share books with him and my mother. I gave my dad one of Dick
Francis’ books about a painter with connections to horse racing (To the Hilt). Dad
went on to read more of Francis’ books and subsequently, at his request, he and
I attended the races at Marquis Downs in Saskatoon a few years before its
demise.
Recently, I have been working on a novel that partially
takes place in the city of my father’s childhood and youth. The book also deals
with the second world war and incorporates some of the stories my father told
me. During much of the writing I have felt as if my father is standing at my
shoulder.
Just prior to and during Christmas I took a break from
writing and focused on painting and drawing, something I’ve taken up for fun
and relaxation in the last couple of years. I love trying new media, different
subjects. Again, this all makes me think of my father, who for part of his life
also painted, though sadly he stopped. I have one of his paintings hanging on
my wall. I like to think this urge to paint and draw is another gift he’s left
me.
I like this quote:
It is not until
much later, as the skin sags and the heart weakens, that children understand;
their stories, and all their accomplishments, sit atop the stories of their
mothers and fathers, stones upon stones, beneath the waters of their
lives."
- Mitch
Albom.
