Our Dad

This is a guest post written by my aunt, Barb Weatherbee. It is a eulogy in memory of my dear grandfather, Melvin Roy "Toby" Weatherbee, a true example of some one who chose love. 

Our Dad was strong.  He worked on the railway for years driving spikes and making the rails safe for everyone.  He wasn’t very tall but to us he was a giant.  He was the boss at work but Mom took over at home.

Our Dad was the original weekend Dad.  He worked away from home from Monday to Friday and only came home on the weekends.  I used to wait by the door for the big orange truck to come rolling in.  He squeezed a lot of love into those two days and we never felt cheated because he gave us everything he could.

Our Dad was particular.  Kathy was the snow shoveler but for every 40 foot driveway she shoveled with a 50-pound shovel, he always took care to remind her, she didn’t cut her corners. 

He also used the same fork for every meal.  It was called “Dad’s fork” and if you put it back in the wrong place in the drawer (not with the other forks!) you got the look.

Oh yeah, our Dad had a look.  We just called it “the look”.  We are not very creative.  You may not have seen it, but if you ever said or did anything he didn’t like, you got it.  We all got it.  Some days he did it behind our backs but on a good day he made sure to wait until you turned around.  Sometimes, it was accompanied by “the hand” but it was always very special.  I bet a lot of you got the look and you never even knew it.

Our Dad loved to drive.  His car was his sixth girl.  He drove from Nova Scotia to Quebec and when he came home on the weekends one of his favourite things to do was go for a drive.  Of course Mom had to tell him how to do it but he took instruction very well.  No doubt she got the look.

Our Dad was fearless.  When you lived with 5 women you had to be.  He was familiar with every brand of feminine hygiene product and when we ran out he made the run to the store without a minute’s hesitation.  I remember a call from him from the store where he asked me in a loud voice, “Did you want the ones with wings?”

Our Dad loved to party.  It was a long time ago but he liked to have a drink or two and spend time with friends.  A few days before he passed when his granddaughter Carrie, asked him if he needed anything, he said “a quart of whiskey”.  A part of me wonders if he was kidding.  The other part knows he wasn’t.

Our Dad loved to help people.  He was the unofficial taxi for a lot of folks who needed his help and would go anywhere or do anything for anyone.  And he rarely ever gave them the look.

Our Dad was creative.  I never ever found out what a cow cat was, what made it holy or its relation to a fishing boat but my Dad used to talk about them all the time.  Holy Cow Cats and fishing boats! 

Our Dad was always early.  If Sharon told him to pick her up for work at 7:20, he was in the yard at 7:10.  So Sharon learned to tell him to come ten minutes later than she’s needed him.  She was always good with the math.

Our Dad had other names for us.  Connie was sweetie.  I was “Squeak and Go Fetch It” and sometimes just “Squeak.”  I guess those times he had nothing for me to fetch.

Our Dad loved to sing.  He never remembered the words to any songs but that’s OK, he made up his own and he would sing them at the top of his lungs.  They were always different and they never rhymed.  He could have made a fortune today. 

Our Dad was a bit of an electrician but he picked strange times to do his work.  Every time my sisters observed their curfew by having their boyfriends park the car in the yard to “talk” he started flicking the outside light on and off.  That always meant they should come in and help him.  I am pretty sure that’s what it meant.

Our Dad did not have much education but he knew more about what it took to be a provider, a husband and a father than could fill a hundred books. 

But most of all Our Dad was just that: Our Dad.  Nothing could be more simple or more important.  We were everything to him and he was everything to us.  He was Our Dad.