A Chat with Dad

In my first book, Sowing My Father's Garden, I have this amazing new ability to simply call up my long deceased Father on a screen and hold conversations with an artificial simulation of him.

I didn't really plan to write this story this way. When I came up with the concept, it simply sounded like a cool little aspect to the story.

But after I wrote the first interaction with my Dad, it took me a long time in the story before I went back to it. It was just too real.

In the story, I find my main character to be in a position where he (he who is me) getting advice from a lot of people. But no matter how much I respected the others feeding me their insight and opinion, I found that I still had to go back in the story and run it past my artificial Dad.

And it felt good to me, writing these conversations, these pretend dialogues with the man I respected more than any other in my life, focusing on my memories of every little nuance about his mannerisms, his speech cadence, his sincerity, and how he always balanced his rational with humor. How thoughtful he was, and how he could dissect the simplest idea to find it's real intention and meaning.

And I realized how much I really truly miss him. I didn't really know this until I delved into trying to resurrect him in this artificial simulation.

Below is that first excerpt from Sowing My Fathers Garden … where I discover inside this amazing network the Planter's Society had built, that my Father – the founder of this society – had been artificially modeled so that other members could "bounce things off him.

Tomorrow is Dad's birthday. He would have turned 81.

Ironically his birthday falls on a day we call Remembrance Day.

Happy Birthday Dad. You are indeed remembered.

14 – A chat with Dad I quietly re-entered the bedroom so as not to wake Anne as she was sleeping. I picked up the remote control and went to the front of the room where the video screen stood. I moved a comfortable chair to a location in front of the video screen, and worked my way through the menus back to the Angel flying into view. "Let me talk to my Dad, please." I said, just – if for nothing else – to see how smart this thing really is. "Certainly", responded the Angel. The screen went black. After a couple of seconds, a little orange glow appeared near the middle of the screen. As I looked closer, I could see the outline – the silhouette of a figure, lying on the couch, the orange dot grew brighter – then dimmed, and a puff of smoke drifted past. The dot then moved in a fashion to a lower position and stopped – as if set down in an ashtray. Even though the screen was nearly pitch black, I could still make the silhouette out to be my Dad. – laying on the couch in a pair a tennis shorts – a tee shirt on, laying on his side with one arm propping up his head. "Dad?" "I've been wondering when you would get around to coming to see me", said the silhouette.  "How was your flight?" "Great", I said. "How are Anne and my two granddaughters, Alex and Rae?" "They are great too". "I can't wait to see them". It was indeed my Dad's voice. Same professional speaking voices, a little tired, with a touch of gravel from smoking. "Dad, you quit smoking, remember?" "I started back up.", said the voice. The orange dot lifted into the air – grew brighter as it sat in front of the face of the silhouette, then grew dimmer. It landed to a position on the side of the silhouette's hip. Just like Dad did as he laid on the couch in the dark smoking and thinking. "So where do we start, then?", I asked the silhouette. "How about asking how I am?" "Okay, I'll bite, how are you ... Dad?" "Dead, pretty much." Said the silhouette, with a dead pan delivery of a joke. Just like Dad. "Yes, and I don't really find all this very amusing", I replied. "I'm kind of pissed off that Mom would let you be … well … reverse engineered I guess is the best way to say it." "Capiche", said the silhouette. "But I will say this, you sure do look and sound and act like my old man." "I told you, I hate the term 'old man'." And Dad did, too. I referred to him as my old man one time, he reached over and cuffed me good in the head. "At least you can't reach me now", I laughed, "And I'm too old for a whooping." "You would be surprised at what this thing can do", replied the silhouette. And for a second I considered he might be right. "I don't think I can let the girls see this … see you … this way. Do you understand?" "Not only do I understand, but I agree with you a hundred percent!" replied my digital silhouette of a father. "At least not yet … when they are older … that's why your mother agreed to put me in here." "So you have a pre-recorded message to play for them then?", I asked. "Not pre-recorded – but a script I guess you could say. Your mother made a collage of video clips for the girls to see, and some instructions for me to … well … show my best side to them. Some day they may want to meet me." "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it", I replied. "Do you have anything scripted to say to me? This is a lot of … shit … to grasp. I could use some guidance." I swore on purpose. I was never allowed to swear around my Mom or Dad. Not even as a young adult. "You mean 'Stuff', a lot of stuff to grasp." "Sorry, just testing you". "I know." The orange dot again drifted from the silhouette's hip to his face, grew brighter then dimmer, and another puff of smoke drifted across the screen. "The only advice that I have for you is to use your best judgment. These are very good people. They sincerely are trying to do the right things. They are trying to carry forward on a mission I left them with over twenty years ago." "I think I need a history lesson, Dad. How did all this come to be? Where did you get all the money to fund all of this? " "Tonight is not the night for a history lesson, kid. The Angel can tell you the history. She can probably play it back for you like a movie." .. there was a pause … then the silhouette continued .. "Yes, I just checked, and the Angel has the order and sequence of this to unveil to you all queued up, but not tonight, it's still too new to you, all this … shit." I laughed. That was my dad. "But this I must tell you. I am not the one who brought the wealth to this group. That was Abercrombie. John is a genius. He built all of this. I just provided … well … the inspiration I guess. That's why they wanted Mom to let them put me into this thing. So they could remember what they are here for." "Oh". "You are an invited member. This is not some family legacy left to you. This is serious stuff and you better treat it as such. What John has asked you to join is his – the Society's. What they expect of you is … well, a little bit of me. Got it?" "I got it." "Good." "Remember …." Said the silhouette. "The old man's always right", I said, beating him to the punch. "That's right". "I miss you Dad." "I know." The orange dot floated over to the silhouette's face, again grew brighter, then dimmer, then floated to the ashtray, the hand of the silhouette putting out the orange glowing dot as a puff of smoke again floated across the screen. "That's enough for tonight … we'll talk again tomorrow. G'night". And the silhouette got up from the couch and walked out of the picture. "G'night Dad".

 

Peddling Papers

Remembrance Day has come and gone again.

My Dad’s birthday was November 11th or Remembrance Day here in Canada. Everyone here dons a red poppy pinned to their lapel to remember our fallen soldiers.

When I was a little boy, I always felt bad for Dad having a birthday on Remembrance Day – because everyone would be remembering other people and nobody would remember his birthday.

Birthdays are important when you’re a little boy.

But since Dad passed away some 22 years ago, I spend a good portion of that day simply remembering my Dad.

My Dad had some really great sayings.

When he would greet us in the morning he would ask “How’s your belly for spots?” instead of “How are you?”

When someone would offer Dad something he would smile wide and say “We take all free gifts”.

When he would find my brother and I to be a bit to rambunctious, he would tell us to “go peddle your papers” or “go play in traffic”.

But my favorite expression was used anytime that my brother and I and Dad would know that we were in trouble with our Mom.

Before Paul and I could even conger up any feasible resemblance of an excuse or alibi, Dad would simply smile at and almost with a wink he would say to us

“You lie and I’ll swear to it”.

This year I was thinking about all the technology that has evolved over the last 22 years. I was thinking about how it was too bad that Dad didn’t get to experience how personal computers would have revolutionized how he did his job as the Manager of Southern Region for Business Products Sales for the 3M Company.

He likely would have fought it.

Dad would spend hours working on the visuals – the transparencies that he laid on top of the lighted screen of the overhead projectors he sold to schools and businesses as he prepared to give presentations to very large audiences.

Of course, programs like Microsoft’s PowerPoint would have made this task a breeze – although Dad was very much a person to pay attention to detail.

Spreadsheets and word processors would have greatly helped both my Dad and my Mom – who appointed herself as Dad’s private secretary.

They were a great team.

But Dad got very sick in 1983. He was forced into an early retirement just a year or so before the very first IBM PCs came onto the market. Dad passed away in 1990 a couple years before the Internet came along in such a way that the public could access it.

Dad never saw e-mail, or instant messaging. He never saw a web page like this one. He never would have dreamed of things like Skype or Facebook or Twitter or YouTube.

Or the iPhone.

In retrospect – much of what the personal computer came to be replaced what the very business products my Dad’s teams sold.

Except Post-It notes.

Sad, Dad never saw the 3M Post-It notes. And the computer never really found a way to replace them.

And Dad never saw any of the professional social networking sites like LinkedIn.

My Dad often told the story of being hired by Blue Cross Blue Shield in Michigan – about how when asked what University he went to, he replied “Why the University of Western Ontario”. When challenged by whoever he told the story to, he would rebut, “I most certainly did go to Western, every Thursday … to sell Encyclopedia Britannica”.

And Dad would laugh.

I like to tell that story on behalf of my Dad now. But that was then – before the Internet - before Google – before being able to validate such facts nearly instantaneously online.

I don’t think my Dad would have tried to pull that kind of stunt today.

It’s funny though, because most people I know have their professional credentials on LinkedIn. Their whole resume is on their profile; their education, their certifications, their acquired skills, and their employment history.

It’s all there.

IT people are funny when it comes to listing their skills on a resume. It’s as though they list every technology they ever heard of as a skill they have acquired. There seems to be no regard as to what they will do should they get hired to work with that technology they know by name only.

And now, others can attest to your mastering the skill. They simply click on the skill link in your list of skills and select Endorse.

That person does not have to prove that they know that you know that skill. But with a mere click of a mouse such a claim becomes a verified fact.

Or as my Dad would have said, “You lie and I’ll swear to it!”

My Baseball Dad

Baseball is a big deal at our house.

It has been since I was a little boy.

No matter where we were going, the ball equipment always sat in the trunk of our car – at the ready – should we pass an empty ball diamond along the way. And if we did, the car pulled over to the side, the equipment bag came out of the trunk, and we would hold a quick infield practice.

That’s just how my Dad was.

He was an excellent coach – and his forte was teaching technique. Acquire the basic skill, and then master the technique.

The one break-through day I clearly remember was when Dad taught me how to charge a hard hit ground ball so that you catch it just as it hit the ground – taking the ball just as it came up – eliminating for the most part the possibility of the ball taking a bad bounce and going by you.

That advice really worked.

That was when I was eleven years old.

Up until then, I would simply sit back on the ground ball and snag it as it came by – most often with success – but that waiting time both allowed the runner to move further up first baseline meaning he would beat my throw more often.

After I learned that technique of Dad’s and mastered it as an eleven year old, I made the all star team at short stop or second base every year after. It made such a huge difference.

I see a lot of coaches teaching the principle of charging the ball these days, but they seem to forget the point of taking the ball on the short hop.

He also spent a lot of time teaching us the individual techniques of hitting, all those little things like the proper stance – spending hours positioning us at the plate – and how the timing of shifting your weight from your back foot to your front foot so that your bat strikes the ball at the exact moment your weight shifts – allowing you to hit the ball hard with your weight rather than with your arms – and how to snap your wrists right at the point of contact to optimize your leverage and transferring twice the power of your weight into the ball. All these individual points of technique that when put together with keeping your eye on the ball and being able to tell a strike from a ball as it leaves the pitchers hand – add up into one beautiful swing that hits line drives over the infield and perhaps over the outfield every time.

That was my Dad. He knew baseball. He coached baseball. And he coached coaches how to teach these advanced fundamentals.

But nothing really clicked for me until I turned eleven – when my muscle and hand-eye coordination started to really allow me to apply these techniques. Until then, I never really felt like I had control – control of the ball as I threw it like my Dad taught me – control of the heavy bat as I tried to move it through the plane of the swing – control of my feet and my body as I went back for a long fly ball looking over my shoulder and watching it all the way into the webbing of my glove.

At age eleven – I gained the coordination of the muscles in my body to do what I was thinking – and what I was thinking came all that training.

Now I am a Dad. Not nearly as good a Dad as my Dad when it comes to baseball – or softball – as Alannah and Ashley-Rae are nine and ten years old. But I am trying.

But next year, Alannah turns eleven. And I am hoping her muscle coordination “kicks in”.

Friday Night – the Turtle Club team they play for was facing Windsor West – at Mic Mac Park – under the lights for the first time ever. And the girls were excited – and the Windsor West team was a good team with decent pitching.

Alannah hit a line drive right to the girl playing short stop – who caught it. Later – with girls on second and third hit another line drive up the middle and scored two runs. As well, Ashley-Rae ran out a close play at first to be called safe.

Later, Alannah in right field (all players rotate positions each inning to be fair to all) – a hard line drive was hit up the first base line – just inside the bag – a fair ball – and Alannah took off to chase it down. As she reached the ball the runner was turning first and heading full speed for second – and Alannah picked that ball up with her bare hand and threw it on a rope to the second baseman Danielle – hitting her glove perfect as the base runner ran into her glove for an out.

It was great.

Our Turtle Club team lost that match 9-10. But it didn’t matter.

There are signs that both are on the verge of their coordination “kicking in”.

Dad would be so excited.

And now, just starting right now, we can start to carry that equipment bag in the car, and stop and hit ground balls and take batting practice and work on all of these techniques my Dad taught me.

At least that’s what I hope will happen. Like I said earlier, I’m not as good a Dad as my Dad was. And it’s harder with our schedules now to find the time to just have fun anymore.

I can’t find any time to play golf – but maybe baseball will be different.

That all being said – my Dad could be a tough coach – insisting that you try – and repeating the same things over and over again each time he slammed a ground ball …

“Get up on balls of your feet and off your heels”

“Keep your head down on the ball … it won’t hurt you”

“Charge that ball harder and keep that glove down”

And sometimes my brother Paul and I would get plain frustrated – and we would say mean things to him. And sometimes we quit.

But Dad always inspired us to get back out there and try even harder.

I don’t know how all that repetition and frustration will play out with Alannah and Ashley-Rae – but we will see. They’re good girls and they really do love softball and want to learn more … but they both get frustrated very easily. And they cry … girls cry. I don’t remember me and Paul crying playing ball. Maybe we did.

But Dad was patient. More patient than I think I am.

I’m not as good a Dad as my Dad was, you see.

Absolutely Right

When I was a boy, growing up in the southeastern state of Georgia, my Dad would continually pound into the heads of my brother Paul and I the means to achieve a positive outlook on life, and demonstrate to us again and again the kind of doors such an outlook would open for us.

At that time we lived a suburban town of Atlanta called Lawrenceville. It was there that Paul and I grew into teenagers. It was there that we became athletes. Not only did we love sports, but we were very good.

Okay, I know, that sounds egotistical. And I apologize. But this is how we saw ourselves. This is how our Dad taught us to see ourselves. We believed wholly in our hearts that we were and therefore that is what we became.

It started with baseball. And baseball started before we moved to Georgia. As long as I can remember, anytime we came across a ball diamond, we pulled the family car over, got the equipment bag out of the trunk, and held infield, batting, and pitching practice.

We did this for fun. This was our family’s way of having fun together. I still remember slamming long drives and flies out to center and right fields and watching mom get on her horse to get under the ball to make the catches. She would throw the ball back into Paul who was on the mound pitching, and Dad catching behind the plate.

God those days were great.

Dad would pound balls at me at short stop – making me trust me myself that charging the hardest hid grounder was the best way to pick up the ball. Charging hard in, picking up the ball on the short hop, and wheel it to first.

We were both good, we made every all star team, and we knew that we always going to play well. That was what our Dad instilled in us. Confidence in the very skills he taught us.

When Paul started getting good at tennis, Dad used those same principles to instill into Paul that he was good and he could compete with anybody in the State. In the mid-seventies, Atlanta was quite a hotbed for junior tennis, and the competition was fierce. Paul moved his way up the state ladder to reach the top-five. He had the skills, he had confidence in those skills, and he used them to achieve the goals that he set.

Those same principles are still deeply instilled in both my brother and I today.

We both know that there is nothing to hard for us to learn and master. We both know that we can acquire any skill we need to meet any challenge we may face. And we both know that having mastered the skills, the confidence comes naturally.

"So what does this have to do with positive thinking?" You may ask. "Did you get off track again, Fred?"

No, confidence is the core foundation needed to acquire optimism. When you are confident in yourself, in your skills, then you can only be optimistic about the results. You simply know you will succeed.

You will succeed. There is no doubt.

Optimism is the ultimate positive state of thinking.

My Dad had a saying. “If you think you are right, then you are right. You are absolutely right, until you are proven wrong.”

"Huh? You lost me."

Well, let me break it down. If you think you are right about something, and you are a confident person, then you will commit yourself to the decision you believe is right. You will not approach that decision in a wishy-washy manner of “I think this might work”.

That confidence allows that commitment to that decision to be clear in your mind. That clear decision becomes your goal. And you have commitment to your goal. And once you set a goal, you must be absolutely committed. There is no room to waver or second-guess yourself. You are absolutely right, and you must proceed with that commitment to complete that goal.

The part about “until you’re proven wrong” simply means that should your decision be incorrect, meaning your committed to a false goal, you have to understand – identify that you are wrong, accept that you are wrong, and re-align your commitment to your new decision.

To follow this method of thinking will result in ever-deepening confidence in yourself. That ever-growing confidence will inspire greater optimism. That optimism will ultimately conclude in a very positive thinking, self-satisfied person.

The person you want to be.

For all the things that my brother Paul and I have to thank our Dad for, this lesson I believe is the greatest gift I have ever received. While it is difficult – if not impossible – to maintain this state of thinking all the time, it does become easier each time you slip from it to identify that slip, and correct your mental course.

And of this, I am right. I am absolutely right. Until I am proven wrong.

Wishing Traditions

Yesterday, coming home from work with the girls in tow, we had a surprise on our front doorstep.

The Sears Christmas Wish-Book was waiting for us.

The surprise was that Sears still publishes a catalogue. I personally haven’t seen one since at least the rise of the Internet.

But then I wasn’t exactly a member of Sears target catalogue audience until recently.

I picked up the two-inch thick tome of available wares up and gave it the quickie thumb-flip through. It was just like I remembered:

Furniture
Clothes
Tools and Appliances
Yard and Patio

and Sporting Goods

and Toys.

The memories came flooding back. The weekend mornings of me and my brother Paul lying on the floor of the living room, carefully scrutinizing every product entry that fell within the boundaries of the toy and sporting goods sections of that colossal encyclopedia of what the world had to offer.

Ok, we scrutinized the boy’s toys, and flipped quickly past the girls stuff.

The action heroes, the hot wheel sets, the helicopters and planes that really flew.

Then we would review the sporting goods section, where all the ball gloves and bats, tents and various accessories were listed.

And I would start my list of things to ask Santa for.

I was pretty organized from the beginning. I would start at the first page and list everything of interest, and the page number. I would then proceed through the section until all pages had been indexed.

The first draft was usually several pages long.

As the time grew closer and closer to Christmas, I would continue to refine my list – scratching out those items that would not make the subsequent cuts.

In the end, I had a three-quarter page list. And I would present this final draft to my parents as my list for Santa. I was keenly aware that Mom had a direct line to Santa.

A slight sadness fell over me. It is only August. Okay, it's the last week of August. But still - “Did the Christmas Wish-book used to come before Labor Day?”

After I finished my quick thumb through, I called Alannah and Ashley-Rae into the living room. I sat them on the couch with me, and I introduced them to the Sears Christmas Wish-Book. And I explained to them:

“This is a wish book. This is a book for wishing from.”

“And the wishes come true Dad?”

“They might. They might not. But this is a book that shows you all the kinds of things that the world has to offer.”

“Everything in the world is in that book Dad?”

“No, but it’s a start. A pretty good start” and I turned the page to the sporting goods section. I showed them the ball gloves, and basket ball hoops. I showed the pool table section where they listed various types of accessories.

“Boooor-ring!” exclaimed Ashley-Rae.

“Isn’t there anything in there for kids, Dad?” asked Alannah with big hopeful eyes.

“Why yes, I believe there is some kid stuff in here too,” I replied, flipping to the first of many pages showing various 5-6 year old girl stuff.

As I walked down stairs to the family room, both girls sat in stunned awe looking at all the dolls, and doll houses, and games and toys. In a few minutes I heard the awe change to shrieks and could hear the pointed fingers slapping the page where they found something they like, and saying “I want that!” – “No I do, find something else!” … echoing through the house.

And I thought to myself … “What have I done?”

I’m anxious to get my hands on the Wish-Book myself. I will flip to the Tools, Yard and Patio sections.

And the Sporting Goods section.

I better go find some paper, before the girls use it all.

My Dad

I don't have a digital picture of my Dad.

I doubt that I have even 5 old-fashioned pictures of him.

We just were not "picture people".

It's too bad because today I would like to have opened this entry with his picture.

My Dad was Raymond Allen Brill.

Ray was a masterful salesman. A professional presenter of material, and probably the best mentor, teacher, coach, and as inspirational as a boy could possibly have for a Dad.

Born in London, Ontario in 1932, Dad and my Uncle Fred were brothers. They played baseball and hockey. They loved both, but they will admit they loved baseball more. Dad would draw pictures of himself stretching full out at second base to make that diving catch.

Yeah, they were Detroit Tiger fans.

He would tell me stories of growing up playing ball, and drinking beer in the hotels. And how good that beer would taste after a hot ball game. He talked of those days so passionately that those stories are primary reasons why I would later move to London myself, play ball in those same leagues, and drink ice cold beer after at those same hotels.

I only saw my Dad drink the odd beer. And it usually caused him severe stomach pain afterwards. But you could see he appreciated it when he did.

Dad worked very hard with my brother Paul and I, teaching us to throw behind the ear, charge the ball to field it on the short hop, and lift the elbow to hit consistent line drives. We could be on our way anywhere, dressed any way appropriate for our destination, but if Dad spotted an empty ball field he pulled over. The equipment bag forever in our trunk, we took infield and batting practice, Mom playing first or outfield shagging fly balls.

We loved it so much. We never fought or bickered playing ball. It's just what we did.

Dad was also a sailor. A self taught sailor. We learned together as a family and those memories are as special as any other. We started with a tiny little 13 foot Sunfish. Advanced to bigger waters in a 17 foot Viking which we sailed on the lakes of Michigan and docked in Mitten Bay. Moving to Minnesota when Dad climbed the ladder with 3M, Dad bought a Coronado 23. We would sail on week long adventures, taking our floating camper to different corners of Lake Peppin - the mouth of the mighty Mississippi - tossing out anchors - swimming and camping on the boat.

Dads' biggest dream was that we lived where it was always warm.

In 1975, 3M gave my Dad three options to move as a regional sales manager:

• London, Ontario
• San Diego California
• Atlanta, Georgia

Having just lost both his own Mum and my Mother's Mum a couple years earlier, Dad entertained moving back to Canada. But during a trip mixed with a family reunion, he realized it would not be the place he wanted to live - he wanted us to live.

Why Dad chose Atlanta over San Diego, I may never know. Most likely Atlanta was still within travel distance to come back to Windsor and London. I often wonder how different I would have been as a surfer dude from the coast beaches. I still have a slight southern trace about me in my manner - and I wonder which would have been better - good ol' boy or surfer Dude.

In Atlanta, Dad found my Brother Paul's interest in Tennis. He helped Paul rise to the Top ten juniors in Georgia, and the Top 5 in Louisiana. Tennis was big back then, and Paul had this natural ability to just beat the crap out of most anybody.

When Paul was a freshman at our high school - Berkmar - he was of course on the Tennis Team. He played in the county finals against a senior who had won last year. This kid expected to walk all over Paul - because Paul was little. But this kid had no business being on the same court as my brother.

Paul wore a horrible plaid pair of golf shorts, and a different pattern plaid shirt. He didn't take the match very seriously. At the beginning of the match, the kid was condescending to Paul. After Paul took the first set 6 - Love, the condescension turned to outrage. The kid complained about every call, and Paul just rolled his eyes and laughed at the kid. Paul won that match 6-love, 6-love, 6-love. He had to be escorted off the court because the kid kept trying to get at him to beat him up.

And my Dad watched as proud as any Dad could be.

But my Dad also loved smoking. And in the end, it was that love that proved to be fatal. He survived with emphysema after having pretty much half his internal organs removed for Cancer in 1983. He lived with my Mom in the same apartment my Mom is in now from 1984 to when he died in September of 1990.

It has been 17 years now. And I miss him.

There was a wealth of knowledge there to tap, that I did not tap.

I don't know what he would think of my life choices to now. Maybe he would have talked me into taking those jobs at Apple and IBM. Maybe he would be upset that I chose to live in Windsor again, after he worked so hard to leave.

But one thing I know. He would have loved my wife. And he would have cherished my two little girls.

I can see him there with Alannah now, positioning her leg, lifting her elbow, telling her to watch the ball all the way to her bat. "Atta-girl" he would say as she smashed the ball against the fence on the other side of the yard.

"Atta-Girl".

Happy Fathers Day