My first memory

 

I’m not sure when the whole notion of Father’s Day was initiated, but for me that day came a long time ago when I was just a little boy of four or so.

It was in Halifax at what I think is 6427 Dudley Street, a two storey house now finished in white siding, where our family lived for part of our stay there. It still retains a concrete wall surrounding the front lawn and separating the driveway, with three steps or so up the front from the sidewalk to a short path to the front door. The driveway itself is now paved but you can still see the upstairs bathroom window from where my brothers let go paper water bombs on unsuspecting sisters and neighbourhood kids below. A fenced backyard remains where I spent some time confined to home turf, the odd cat for company. There are cedar hedges in front there now, perhaps having been started way back then.

Dudley Street itself today retains its slight slope uphill from in front of the house to the top of the road. It was where we sometimes raced down in homemade buggies or wagons only to suffer the road rashes we then wore as badges of honour, proof of courage and daring. It’s likely I participated out of blind obedience to my brothers, a crash test-dummy of sorts, but also out of fear and thrill-seeking.

When I was about four, my first memory was formed right there on that street. Some remember a bit earlier, some later, but four is a nice average for when recalled memory begins. That day, Mom was out and we were left in the care of our oft missing father. He was a naval officer, really more a stranger to me then for he still travelled the seas a lot. She could have been off having one of my siblings for all I know, her absences were few and only for the very best of reasons. I’m sure we were warned to be on our best behaviour. To me, Dad was a mysterious man, tall and powerful, with a booming voice and rigid sense of order.  I looked upon him with some trepidation and even fear. For a boy who was still learning to shit on his own, the absence of my main trainer presented a big challenge. He was unknown, unfamiliar, daunting to consider.

 

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Put out to play in the yard that one day, things were moving along just fine until suddenly, that bodily pressure from behind crept up without me even realizing it. Looking up at the property, the steps up to the walkway, the further few paces to the stairs and finally the front door, I knew I’d never make it, let alone get inside and all the way upstairs to the bathroom. My only alternative was to sit my butt down on the curb of the concrete steps, wedging the hardness of the cold form into the crack of my ass to stop nature in her tracks. In this position, and with my full weight preventing the stool’s escape, I could simply deny my body’s need and reverse the natural order of things, perhaps buying time to get into proper position inside later.

Of course it worked… and it didn’t work. What inevitably happened was a back-up, but also an escape, and a mash of it in my underpants. A mushrooming effect that spread from one cheek to the other ensuring the whole of my backside got some. My pants stuck to my bum like flypaper to a wall. The event, hopelessly but valiantly mitigated by my efforts, still represented that I had shit my pants.

Now one can surmise that shitting one’s pants at four is a natural thing, to be expected, never suspecting that it might cause certain panic. But I had obviously been well versed in the disappointment inherent in these episodes before. Say what you like about that Freudian theory regarding a child being toilet trained by his Mother, with all the fear, the loathing, the psychic permanence of the experiences that might entail; I just knew somehow I was in big trouble. Incidentally, have no recollection of my Mother’s remonstrations on this subject but the anal-retentive traits I carry with me today are evidence there was something to it. Clearly, shitting one’s pants was not appreciated by those around me. Try as I might to avoid it, the speed with which my body moved did not match my best intentions, nor my Mother’s exasperated expectations.

So it was with some serious worry that I edged closer to the door, after first climbing the stairs to the path while feeling the load I was now carrying. I had no

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choice, you see, my underwear was caked and stuck to my two cheeks; my shuffling gait would not conceal much for long. I could not remain undiscovered forever. There must have been a smell too but fear must have overridden that. This day, the added trial of having to face my Father, and the inherent unknown that involved, caused me quite enough in the way of panic and horror, enough to jar my mind into remembering from that day on.

I bravely walked to the steps of the front door, condemned to my fate. No, it was more like I hesitantly moved like a penguin: a little to, a little fro, glancing nervously at the windows for signs of being spotted. I imagine my brow was furled in the manner I have seen in old black and white pictures of me from back in the day. Somehow I managed to make it to the door without one of my siblings spying me and sounding the alarm. That alone was a minor miracle. At the front door, just as I was about to attempt entry and get to the bathroom on my own, to somehow manage this disaster inside my pants away from everyone else, the door swung open. There before me was my Father, huge and handsome, a simultaneous look of calming nonchalance and intense readiness about him, hauling on the last of a smoke, exhaling and saying “had a little accident?” How did he know I wondered?

Yes, I supposed I answered as timidly as I could, maybe in tears and awaiting the condemnation I assumed due to me for allowing my body to fail me at this critical time. I had been warned not to do this and I had been defeated miserably. If only I could foresee these events beforehand, this calamity would not follow me everywhere as it regularly did. I fully expected to be put through a new version of harangue, to be informed anew of my lack of vigilance and the great imposition I had caused.

But instead, my Father’s kindly words and demeanour instilled an entirely different feeling in me. It said, with surprising tolerance, that we would fix this together. “Let’s get you upstairs and changed” Dad said.

 

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And that was it: a warm and embracing reception done in a matter of fact manner, without judgement or threats of any kind. It was no big deal to him, and yet, I felt as if I had dodged a far worse fate which I can still remember like it was yesterday. What a relief! This father guy wasn’t so bad after all; in fact, I grew to love him on the spot. In that one act of kindness he had cemented himself in my heart as my true hero, kick starting my memories in the process. I still wear his affection like a clean pair of underwear, something anyone can appreciate.

And he has been my hero in so many ways since. Throughout our sometimes turbulent lives, Dad has always taken the high road with me in the end. He has always been there at penultimate times with just the right amount of generosity, empathy and direction. If I could impact someone else’s life in the same way he has influenced mine, I would see myself as a decent and good man.

I stopped shitting my pants a long time ago. But wherever a child should have an accident, it’s my father’s example that serves to remind me of the dramatic effect a little patience, tolerance and respect can have on someone. And this attitude translates to not just those who might shit their pants, but unintentional mistakes of all kind. For it was my father who taught me this; moreover, I am grateful for this and all the many other fine lessons I have learned at his knee.

Happy Father’s Day Dad, I love you.

 

Christopher