Anticipation of Dad’s birthday prompts me to browse through stacks of old pictures. The photographs trace the journey of his life, calling sweet memories to mind. I see my dad again through the eyes of a small child. I remember his humor and affection. I remember him too through the eyes of a grown woman. I recognize in him characteristics a younger me may not have appreciated.
In the mid 1950s, Dad sailed from the Netherlands to Canada to begin a new life. I wonder how he felt as the time to board drew close. Doubt? Butterflies? Excitement?
He was about to leave everything familiar behind. Once on board he would have no way to communicate with his family back home. In our always connected world this is difficult to imagine; we are seldom out of touch for long periods of time.In those days long distance calls were rare and expensive. Letters were eagerly anticipated, with weeks or months passed in between writing and receiving a response.
Dad was on his own in a strange new country. He had to master the English language, adapt to a new culture, make new friends and connections, find work and a home for himself.
I wish now that he had spoken more about the journey; I wish I’d asked more questions. Was he homesick as he crossed the ocean? Was he seasick? What was his first impression as he arrived in North America?
Thinking about all of this I am filled with admiration: Dad was courageous.
He dreamt of a different life and dared to set out in search of it. I didn’t appreciate the significance of this as a child.
In 1999 I moved from Canada to the United States. That move gave me insight into what means to move far from your family. While immigration required me to adapt, my challenges were few compared to those that my dad endured. The fredom to call home whenever I was lonely gave me great comfort.
The Debets Children with Dad
This favorite picture of all us kids piled on Dad’s lap in the old leather recliner brings childhood memories vividly back to life. I can smell the leather and visualize the colorful vinyl album covers in the corner rack. I see love on Dad’s face and each child’s unique personality in our expressions. I imagine the frustration of the photographer (Mom) as she tried to get all of us looking in in the same direction.
I’m the one with my arm around his neck looking down happily at my baby brother. I relished any opportunity to snuggle close to my father. In a busy household of 7 this was a treat!
My middle brother Ernie was likely unwilling to sit still for a picture and plotting his escape. In the foreground Tim, my older brother, was sweet and cooperative. My sister Dory was no doubt relishing her role as big sister, eager to see baby Andrew smile for the camera.
I adored my dad! I believed he could fix anything. It seemed like there was nothing he wouldn’t apply his creative intelligence to. Dad had the patience to slow down, study a problem, and come up with a solution. It might have taken few attempts but, in my memory, he was usually successful.
When I was still quite young, my mom taught me to knit. One evening, I was excitedly knitting a simple scarf when I noticed a hole in my work. As I sped along, I had dropped a stitch, and gone several inches further before noticing. I was devastated and cried frustrated tears! I had no idea how to fix it, and mom wasn’t home. In my mind’s eye I can still see Dad’s face as he took my knitting from me and carefully considered the problem. Then with painstaking care, he carefully picked up the lost stitch and worked it up through the project until the hole had vanished, and I once again had the correct number of stitches.
My little heart would be filled with pride when school friends would tell me how my dad had come to their house to fix their TV. I loved that he had a skill set that no else’s dad did. Many families had bigger incomes, but we had the benefit of our dad working out of a shop at home. Other than going out on service calls, he was always around joining us for lunch and coffee breaks throughout the day. I understand now, having raised my own family, just what a rare gift this was.
For many years our family had one vehicle, and I remember frequently waiting anxiously on the front porch for dad to get home from a service call so he could get me to my girl scout meeting. It was unpredictable how long a call would take, people would be talkative, and their technical problem might be complex. I worried I’d be late or forgotten, but somehow, he (almost) always managed to get me there on time.
In my teens I landed my first “real” job as a barista in a little European coffee shop in the local mall. The expectation was that we would be responsible for our own transportation to our part time jobs. To get mall by public transit, I would hop on the bus a few driveways down from our home, ride about 25 minutes to the terminal, then transfer to another bus that would take me across the highway to the mall. This was very efficient and economical but also time consuming.
I can no longer recall if it started because I missed the bus, or if the weather was particularly bad, but one morning Dad drove me to work. Before long, we had established a new routine. I would get ready for work, and then turn on the kettle for his morning cup of instant coffee. Usually he was already up, but if it was within 10 minutes of the last possible moment to leave, and he was still snoring, I’d tap on the bedroom door. Quickly he’d get up and be ready to go. We didn’t talk much on those early morning rides, but I treasured the time with him.
Most evenings when we were young, Mom would drink a cup of tea while watching the 10pm news cast, then head to bed. My dad preferred to sit up a little later, sip on a night cap and watch sitcoms. In my teenage years I was a bit of a night owl too. We’d sit up late together, laughing as we watched reruns of sitcoms.
Some nights I would try to persuade him to give me permission for some activity mom had already vetoed. Patiently, and with humor, he would entertain my attempts and then say no. If I cried and argued, he would wait it out. He would not allow me to be rude though, our evening always ended with a kiss goodnight, even if it was begrudgingly on my part. Dad showed his love by being present, never losing patience with me on those nights. (Though I’m certain I tried his patience mightily.)
This is my absolute favorite picture of dad and me. I was 19 years old when he walked me down the aisle on a sunny summer day. The expression on his face was so tender and sweet as our eyes met.
Dad did not talk about his emotions, but on that day I saw all of them in his eyes and in the set of his mouth. I look at this beautiful picture and feel once again all the love his heart was speaking into mine.
I treasure this memory as the sweetest moment I shared with my dad.
On this special day, I remember dad with a few tears and an abundance of gratitude for this kind and loving man.
