From Farmer to Table

My dad had two types of shirts. There were his work shirts; two pockets, preferably with a place to slot in a pen plus a small notebook, and all his other shirts. His shirts were not necessarily extraordinary. What was extraordinary, was the man who wore them.

Dad, also known as Jack, John, Grandpa, Papa, Granddad and even Jackie at one point in his life, embodied physical strength. His square hands and sculpted arms were testament to the years he worked the farm. During his life, he utilized his physicalness like a machine. He enjoyed being able to lift heavy things (bales, tools, cars – kidding, but almost not) especially in his youth. His gentle power was his signature and it was typically covered with a shirt. Dad never went shirtless therefore he had a permanent farmer’s tan. Maybe he invented it.

I will always remember his blackened hands. He could not get the grease stains out, even with the petroleum-based hand cleaner that came in the metal tin. The creases of his hands were always inked in oil and earth. Only in his retired years did his hands soften, releasing the patina of the mechanic’s stain.

When I think of Dad, I recall the shirts he wore that covered his physical presence. He wore his shirts well – even when he was pudgier. His broad shoulders were a permanent clothes hanger for those garments. His work shirts were typically purchased in town while his non-work shirts were, more often than not, thoughtfully curated by his eldest daughter. Colleen kept Dad looking smart and feeling comfortable. Rarely did she miss the mark – if ever – when choosing an appropriate shirt for this old cowboy. Yes, Dad used to be a bit of a cowboy, wearing cowboy boots; one pair for work and the other for going to town back in the 70’s and 80’s. He even had a Stetson at one point – a charming crown for the farmer king. Dad wasn’t a king, nor would he entertain such a description, but when one looked up at that blocky, stocky specimen, he had a presence, a grace and a smile that would melt your heart. He was a solid, compelling patriarch.

When my papa passed, I was with him. I was honoured to share that moment when he chose to leave his body. I believe it was a difficult decision given he had hundreds of people who loved him, including so many grand- and great grandchildren who looked up to him. They came (along with a plethora of other family and friends) to sit and visit, wishing and hoping he would come back home. I think it caused him great angst to leave his family and, true to his headstrong nature, it took him many months in palliative care to get to his point of departure. I am exploring new ways to re-appreciate these shirts and honour the essence of the man who made them more than the shirt off his back. Rest in peace Papa. Thank you for the inspiration you still generously supply. We love you.