Tapestries - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Threads:

My father always told me
do what you feel is best,
allow conscience to guide you -
remember you are blessed.
Don't ever follow blindly,
put wisdom to the test;
you are not any better
or worse than all the rest.
Indelibly imprinted
are views that he opined -
blunt and untempered statements
like ore that's unrefined.
They took some time to process
in hearts he left behind -
now they are embedded deep
and often come to mind.
So much my father told me
in youth I criticized.
Many of his attitudes
I thought that I despised.
As I gain experience
quite often I'm surprised;
reviewing his opinions,
my own are oft' revised.
His simple earthy wisdom
and childlike joie de vivre
are traits in me inherent -
they shape what I believe,
the way I give to others,
and too, how I receive.
These threads interwoven in
the tapestry I'll leave.

By Sharon Flood Kasenberg. September 2, 2007

My father was a character - a complicated man, irascible, short-tempered and dogmatic, but also quick to laughter and capable of great generosity. He was a very intelligent man who was limited by his circumstances. He was a product of his era and his upbringing.

Raised on an isolated island in Lake Huron, he was a boy who suffered an identity complex. Should he be the rough and ready son his father, a quintessential "man's man" wanted, or the scholar that his mother, a former school teacher, desired him to be? He tried to be both, but had no stomach for hunting, and I think that he often felt that he failed to meet his father's expectations. His mother, on the other hand, often showed his children, with considerable pride, the trophy that he won in a spelling bee.

"It was actually a tie", she'd tell us with a smile, "but the judges decided that whoever could darn socks better would get the cup."

And thus my father won - against a girl! I'm betting my grandfather had mixed feelings about that victory.

He grew up fast - finished high school classes in a one room schoolhouse by the time he was sixteen, and went to work helping his father clear lumber "in the bush" and "working the boats" in the north channel. He enlisted in WWII at the age of nineteen, and upon returning home at the age of twenty-three he enrolled in University under the GI bill. But his educational aspirations were cut short by his inability to stay awake during classes.

It took the doctors at Sunnybrook Hospital a while to diagnose narcolepsy, and they never did manage to find effective treatment for him. He moved back to Sault Ste. Marie and began working at Algoma Steel, aka "that stinkin' plant", the same place his father died in a smelting accident. I don't think he ever got over his feelings of defeat at having to put aside dreams of being an architect, engineer or teacher to work on the loading dock of a steel mill.

Shift work was doubly hard on a man who had no control over his sleep patterns. He suffered from insomnia when he needed to sleep, and fought to stay awake and alert on the job. Ignorant coworkers bullied him by playing very unfunny practical jokes on "sleepyhead Bill". He felt tormented.

He was often an angry man.

His life was filled with complicated relationships. I think he felt unappreciated by his wife and children. We resented having to tiptoe around him when he was trying to sleep, or grumpy from lack of sleep. He was strict as a parent, and had very high expectations of his children - especially when it came to academic performance.

And yet, he was gregarious and affectionate. When he wasn't at work he grabbed life with both hands. His evenings were filled with friends, and square dancing and card games. As a teenager I felt ripped off that my parents had a busier social life than I did. Occasionally my brother Robert and I would tease them on the way out the door, saying,

"Try not to come in too late, okay? And if you bring friends home, can you keep it down? We need our sleep!"

My father loved to talk - to just about anyone. I remember walking in the neighbourhood with him as a child, and how he'd greet everyone we passed. I'd think to myself, "Dad knows everyone!" Later I learned that he didn't - but that didn't stop him from starting up conversations with them anyway.

He was an extrovert, and he always wanted his more introverted, bookish children to be more like him. But most of us preferred English to Mathematics and none of us ever took up card playing or square dancing.

When my father died in 1997 we were all shocked that a man so strong and forceful had succumbed to death so soon. He was only in his early seventies, and had hailed from a line of notoriously long-lived folk. We all thought he'd be around decades longer, and perhaps mellow into a more lovable curmudgeon. At his funeral many of us were plagued by varying degrees of guilt - our last conversations with him having been riddled with disagreements.  No great surprise really, as all six of his children had spent most of our lives arguing with him. Still, we'd all grudgingly admired him and all secretly longed for his approval - just as he'd longed for praise from his father.

My father shaped my life better than his father shaped his. He taught me to be smart and tough - to stand up for myself, and to push myself out of my introverted comfort zone. I learned how to talk to strangers, speak in front of groups and "work a room" at social functions.

Thanks to hours of listening to my father's tales, I can tell a good story. I have his temper, but I also have his joie de vivre - that inner imp that was often manifested in him by a twinkling eye or an impromptu out of tune ditty. (Luckily I can carry a tune). I'm a terrible dancer, but I dance anyway. To me, he passed on his sweet tooth, his love of real estate and house plans, and a penchant for enjoying sunsets and being near large bodies of water.  Now I sometimes I get chatty with strangers myself, and I value friendship deeply.

My father was complicated, and so was my relationship with him. That's okay - nobody ever said love had to be easy, or that you had to see eye to eye with somebody in order to love them. On my wedding day my father took Todd aside and said,

"Good luck with this one. I love her, but I just don't get her at all!"

I laughed when my new husband recounted the comment. It was so hilariously ironic that we were united in a complete inability to relate to each other. It was comforting to know that all the times we'd seen things from completely different angles he wasn't just being stubborn - he was genuinely as baffled by me as I was by him. And this in spite of the fact that, if there was a family vote taken, I'm betting my siblings would say that I'm the one most like him.

My father is gone, but my striving for self approval isn't. I wonder what threads off my loom my children will chose to incorporate into their own tapestries. I'm hoping that my goofball sense of humour and affectionate nature are remembered more often that my outbursts of temper.

When I married a very smart man and had a couple of endearing and precocious sons I felt that I'd achieved a nod of approval. He agreed that I'd chosen well, and he thought I was a good mom. He would have enjoyed fascinating conversations with my older son Sam, and would've been thrilled to see my younger son's love of mathematics, and to know that he'd graduated with a degree in Math and Computer Science. He'd be bursting his buttons with pride that Dan made the Dean's list and graduated with distinction. And he would've danced up a storm at the wedding on Saturday - as long as he had legs he would've danced.

Happy Fathers' Day, Dad.

Rest in peace - I will dance for you.

Rehabilitating Reggie: The Story of a Rogue Redeemed - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

This poem in this post was inspired by my love of P.G. Wodehouse - a prolific British author who specialized in wry humour, convoluted plot lines, and mix-ups and mayhem - especially in matters of the heart. His female characters often have a sort of gum-popping in-yer-face kind of chutzpah that clearly indicates that they're in control. (I like that!) His male characters tend to be a bit eccentric - and I like that too. (Among my favorites in the nutty menfolk category is Clarence Threepwood - the 9th Earl of Emsworth, the unpretentious owner of Blandings Castle, who is somewhat obsessed with his prized pig - aptly named The Empress of Blandings.)

The scheme cooked up in my poem between the jilted Cheryl and her PI friend May is, in my humble opinion, very Wodehouse-ish. I could see a couple of his female characters putting their heads together to force a cad into seeing the error of his ways. (Think of their plot as an intervention for a chronic flirt who has a bit of a phobia around commitment : )

Does Cheryl succeed in "changing" Reginald? I don't think so. I prefer to think that she was only successful at helping him to see how much his behavior had hurt others. Furthermore, it seems that Reg really did regret his treatment of her, and when faced with the unsavory fallout resulting from his philandering ways, he finally saw himself as the loser that he was - and a man who could only turn around his losing streak by marrying the one, of all his past paramours, that he ever really cared about. If she'd still have him. (Perhaps that's what Cheryl secretly hoped for all along?)

So without further ado, here is my epic tale of romance a la Wodehouse. Enjoy!

Rehabilitating Reggie: (or Poetic Retribution)

Reginald was a ruthless cad -
an oaf, a boor, a bounder;
a rogue who'd make a nice girl mad
each time he was around her.
He was so prone to flirt and gad
he'd thoroughly astound her.

He'd take a woman to a dance
and escort her on his arm -
(by this implying grand romance,
'til he sounded the alarm)
but somehow never miss a chance
to spread around his charm.

He fancied he was quite a catch
and lived his days in peril -
a handsome price his head would fetch -
his ex-conquests grew feral.
The one who thought him most a wretch,
a dance hall girl named Cheryl.

Reginald rose one summer day
and nothing odd suspecting
arranged to meet a girl named May
whose bus'ness was detecting -
and currently in Cheryl's pay
was evidence collecting.

To meet him, May dressed with great care -
intentionally floozy -
so many folks would stop and stare
while she got him quite boozy.
In tipsy state she hoped he'd dare
to drop names and be newsy.

They met at the appointed time
in the designated place.
May thought revenge would be sublime,
she would bring him to disgrace;
expose him as seducing slime,
wipe all smugness from his face.

Reginald sat slyly winking
at the barmaid passing by;
May was through the details thinking
when this action caught her eye,
and his hand was, snakelike, slinking
under table - up her thigh.

May bit her tongue and grabbed his hand,
thus halting its progression -
'twas clear to her that he had planned
to start a make-out session,
and really didn't understand
her most amused expression.

"Reggie, you're so very dashing -
how could any girl resist?
You are altogether smashing
and so ardently persist!
You have eyes so dark and flashing
and lips begging to be kissed.

Many girls are held in your thrall,
but I'd rather not succumb -
somehow to be at beck and call
seems to me - well, rather dumb -
if you have any heart at all
I would guess that it's grown numb."

Reggie most aback was taken
by her accusation bold -
He said, "May, you are mistaken
if you think my heart is cold -
for my passion you awaken
if the truth is to be told."

"I have no doubt you have passion -
it's quite obvious to see
you have that in ample ration
and will share liberally.
I have noticed it's your fashion
to want every girl you see."

May's response, tersely delivered
halted Reggie in his tracks -
he with trepidation quivered
like she'd threatened with an axe,
and at frost filled glance he shivered,
for he'd weathered such attacks.

"Look around you," May shot, taunting,
"you may not have realized
how your passion you've been flaunting
for innumerable eyes.
And your sentiment is wanting -
we're all tired of your lies."

Now poor Reg, in furtive glances
noticed girlfriends he had spurned
whose eyes pierced like poisoned lances
as his stomach madly churned.
To be faced with past romances
was the punishment he'd earned.

Women soon en mass advancing
made him hyperventilate.
All his ludicrous romancing
lies had brought him to this state.
Noting now, as at door glancing
chances of escape weren't great.

So he braced for confrontation
hoping life would be preserved,
forced to see, in agitation
how he'd got what he deserved;
still, to face such aggravation
left him thoroughly unnerved.

There stood Cheryl front and center
to whom he'd once been engaged.
She would be his prime tormentor -
this scene she had surely staged.
But he couldn't quite resent her
being bitterly enraged.

Her tirade he then preempted
uttering repentant pleas,
but to harm him some were tempted
'til he got down on his knees
and apology attempted
before they could body seize.

"Cheryl you were cruelly jilted,
I abused your tender heart,
and in conscience I feel guilted,
for I plied seducer's art.
Now my viewpoint has been tilted,
I desire a brand new start.

To you I'll make restitution
though the price I'll pay is dear.
I hope I'll find absolution
ere my reckoning is near
for poetic retribution
seems astonishingly clear:

Before you can hatchet bury
somewhere deep within my chest
I propose that we should marry -
you can put me to the test.
Let my sins extraordinary
now be fittingly addressed.

Before all these angry exes
I ask you to be my bride.
Help me build moral reflexes
that will bind me to your side.
In this battle of the sexes
I have no safe place to hide!"

Cheryl tugged the rogue toward her
knowing it was not too late.
His proposal truly floored her
but she didn't hesitate.
This cad surely still adored her!
He would rehabilitate!

May stood up to watch them leaving -
'twas another job well done.
All the lies Reg had been weaving
caught him in the web he'd spun
and his days of girls deceiving
were now definitely done.

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, January 2008