My father departed from this earth on April 15, 1991, at the age of 61. The love that I have for my father is as powerful today as it was from the beginning. He was and will always be my companion, my guide, and the purest example of the word hero. My dad went into battle on the day he was born and it was not until that milky April morning — the day of his death — that he was finally able to lay down his sword.
At the age of 7, my father and his sisters were placed in foster care, where he remained throughout his childhood. At the age of 21, he was drafted into the United States Army, where he served during the Korean Conflict. In his mid-30s, he began warfare with heart disease and other maladies that disrupted his life. During the last 15 years of his life, he was plagued with depression, anxiety and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Indeed, he was a man with a heavy load upon his broad shoulders and despite all of the conflicts and the crosses he was destined to carry, he was a brilliant and devoted father. In regard to his role as husband, he worshipped my mother. She was his driving force.
My dad’s skills in the kitchen were phenomenal. His oyster stew, jumbo pancakes, well-done eggs, and hearty oatmeal were his once-a-week masterpieces. He could assemble and then disassemble a potato harvester in record time. Standing flat on the ground, he could jump up on the back of a potato bag delivery truck in one smooth move. As a licensed arc welder and fabricator, he was constantly sought out by many local farmers and companies such as Gould & Smith and Lane Construction. His burly, powerful hands magically became soft and healing when they carried his little girl into the house after a bicycle tumble that left her knees bleeding and her hands slashed from falling onto angry, sharp pebbles. Those tender hands never let go, whether it was during a Halloween night adventure or the brutality of a broken heart.
My dad was an enigma. There are many facets of his life my sister and I will never know. When he was in Korea and Japan, before I was born, he wrote my mother long, romantic letters which I have with me now. His penmanship was elaborate and filled with swirls of devotion and longing and dreams. These letters were declarations of his love for her. My sister and I were created from that same love.
On that April morning, after a major heart attack, I held my father’s hand for what was to be the last time. His condition was now stable and his pale blue eyes seemed brighter to me. “Your mother and I have some serious talking to do, Bin. I am going to have heart surgery now. This old heart just can’t take it anymore.” I squeezed his fingers and he squeezed back, strong and firm. Within an hour, my father was gone from us; no longer engaged in the battles that had damaged his heart, both physically and emotionally. My father was not a wealthy man. His childhood was unstable and his adult life was tumultuous. On the day of his funeral, the crowd of precious mourners who joined us in the celebration of his life, waited in line past the outside stairway of the funeral home, spilling out into the parking lot. There could be no greater tribute.
Hug your dad today and every day. Cherish your moments with him and most importantly, do not be afraid to toss around that word “love.” Happy Father’s Day!
Editor’s Note: Belinda Wilcox Ouellette has lived in the Caribou area for all of her 56 years. She presently lives in Connor TWP. with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
