Thank you Dad

A mentor of mine suggested I write thank you notes to everyone that has been in my life, living or dead, to tell them what they did and why they are so important to me. I will start with my father, Bob Robertson. I by no means am trying to diminish the importance of my mom, but I have to start somewhere.

Dear Dad,

I know we had this conversation the day before you died but considering all that was going on with you at that time there are some things you may have forgotten.

You were the single most important man in my life. Period. I know that with you I talked about Uncle Ralph, Uncle Roy, Uncle Harold and others, but I was only comparing them to me and you. None of them could ever do for me what you did for me. For that I will be eternally grateful. You live in perpetuity through the stories I tell others, especially my kids, Morgan and Ainsley.

I appreciate all of the times you ran interference between me and mom. I know mom only wanted the best in me and was pushing me to be better but I think you saw something in me that she didn’t. You let me do what I did – like going to Niagara – and even encouraged me.

Thanks for all of the phone calls when I wasn’t expecting them. The phone at Niagara was in the basement and I remember being called to the phone and hearing your voice. It always seemed to come at precisely the right time. You’d seem to know exactly when hearing your voice would help centre me and help me focus. Looking back I now understand that you and I are more alike than I ever thought. I now know you saw that and knew I would want to hear from you.

Thank you for teaching me to laugh at the horribly outrageous and see the actual things that were happening. By that I could easily just use a paper weight you had on your desk that said something about people not understanding the situation. Another said “Those of you who think you know it all are annoying to those of us who do.”. I loved your humour. I try to be like you and even just yesterday I was telling a story about you in class and one f my students commented you live on in me. You taught me that no matter what happens, it has happened. Move on. Then you taught me to laugh at it.

Thank you for helping me be a better person. I know that my life became infinitely harder after you “died”. You never lectures me about ANYTHING. You managed to teach me constantly by telling stories and jokes and anecdotes about subjects we were discussing. I think that has made me a better father, teacher and leader. One of my students told me I didn’t teach but rather invited my students into my living room to tell them stories about what they were learning. I think you felt your history wasn’t important to me but I hung on every ward you said about your family and your ”youth”.

Thank you for putting up with me. I mean that. I look back and I wasn’t a very nice person to you at some times. But you always welcomed me with open arms, a hug and a scratchy kiss. Always.

Thank you for helping me see that I wanted to teach. Not in an arrogant, I’m better than you way but in a “let’s make the world a better place” kind of way. I’m not sure that when I was an assistant cub leader or helping out at school that I was doing it for altruistic reasons but I now see what you were teaching me. Giving back, even when you have nothing, there is always something you can give. You were a volunteer with the Boy Scouts for as long as I can remember even though your son’s were no longer involved. I remember being in your office one weekend working on homework and a tradesman stopped in - a plumber or electrician. He asked you for advice and you set him up with ledger sheets, coloured pens and instructions. I remember asking you if he was a new client and you told me you didn’t think so. But you told me it was more important that this chap leave with all of the information he needed to start to run his business. That taught me a lot. Thank you.

Thank you for folding me a paper ship’s captain hat. You told me you were going to fold this hat and I imagined a cap like the skipper on Gilligan’s Island would wear. I must have really hurt you when I hated the hat. (I know I didn’t, you were my dad, that’s what dad’s do) But I must tell you that I now fold paper pots for a class I teach a class on sustainable horticulture. Essentially I fold the same hat you folded me and then I turn it into a paper pot. I cry a little inside every time I do that.

Thanks for teaching me to love gardening. One of my favourite memories of you is peering out of my bedroom window and seeing you with the kitchen kettle watering the concrete planters on the front porch. You’d have your tie folded into your shirt as you had just finished the dishes and one foot up on the edge of the porch. My other memories of you are at the cottage in the garden hunting tomato hornworms.

Thank you for being you.

I think of you a lot. Maybe not so much when things are going well but when things start to get a little bumpy. You are the first place I usually turn. Thank you for all that you taught me. I think I will end this note here but know you will live on forever in my mind and soul and everyone I tell about you.

Matthew