IF he had to die, he was adamant that it would come in the form of a gunshot from a jealous husband. At his memorial service, most of us agreed that a sudden, fatal heart attack was the next best scenario.
He was a proud man. A man’s man. A lady’s man. A man who had 10 years earlier, after a series of debilitating strokes, regained all that he had lost, physically and mentally. We all knew that another blow to his body would be a brutal blow to his dignity. The doctor said that dad probably didn’t know what was happening and died almost instantly. “Yup,” I heard over and over again, “your dad wouldn’t have wanted to linger”.
He had a colourful vocabulary. I don’t recall much swearing (unlike this daughter of his who drops f-bombs like the Bay drops its prices – everywhere and often), but funny sayings and names: “Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?” to guests overstaying their welcome; “You Potlicker” to those who ticked him off; “If you were any smarter you would be a twin” delivered sarcastically to those with a much too high opinion of themselves. In the last few years, his term of endearment to his favourite women was “Dolly” – as in “Well Dolly, it was great to see you.” I realize now that he used it when he was expressing his feelings – kind of like the way guys say “I love ya”. They feel it, know they should express it (because it is ok for guys to do that now), but coming to this acceptance late in life, have to disguise it. In the last few years though, our phone conversations did end with “I love you” “I love you too”. It was still such a novelty that I hung up the phone with tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat every time.
Dad’s love of all things Playboy must have kept Hugh Hefner in luxurious dressing gowns for years. In the 70’s, dad’s rec room was full of playboy posters, and saucy paraphernalia. I loved serving my friends cold drinks in the glasses with the scantily dressed playboy bunnies’ pictures on them. If the glass got cold enough, the little bit of clothing on the bunny would magically disappear! Bare-breasted women! Hard to believe that was a novelty back then. Dad loved his women. The more voluptuous, the better.
Another love was country music. Dolly Parton was a favourite – go figure! Every time I hear The Orange Blossom Special I am transported to the back seat of his car where Dwayne and I would draw on the frosty windows and listen to the country music station that would always be playing. I fell in love with Johnny Cash when dad and Loretta dragged me to see him at Exhibition Stadium. I was a sophisticated (!) 19 year-old who thought she was humouring her father by letting him take me to the concert. We were three rows from the stage. The Man in Black had an understated, but electric presence. He played from the heart and you could tell that this was his calling. I was mesmerized. June Carter performed with him and I could feel the sparks fly between them when they sang “Jackson”. It remains one of my all time favourite songs.
In addition to country music, he introduced me to a love of driving, road trips and fast cars. When, at age 18, I first moved up to Hanover to live with him, he bought me an orange VW Bug. I do not recall the heater ever working in that thing. But it was fun and putt-putted me to wherever I needed to go. It wasn’t long before the bug was gone and I had use of his 1976 Thunderbird. Now that was a car! Sun roof, power everything, cruise control. And a 427 horsepower engine! That baby could fly. And that is what I did. After school or on weekends, the car would be full of kids and we would sail along the back roads. Music blaring, beer in the back seat (yes those were different times) and smiles on our faces a mile wide. To top things off, I didn’t even have to pay for gas. I could fill up at dad’s shop. At the time, he owned a transport company. Funny, I never really thought of dad as a business man. I always thought of myself as a trucker’s daughter. There were two other owners – former bankers who worked “inside”. Dad was the one who worked on the trucks and with the drivers.
I remember attending some of his company Christmas parties. So many of his staff would come up to me and tell me what a wonderful man my father was. “He would give you the shirt off his back.” “Your dad is the hardest working/most honest/generous person I know.” I would look over at him with pride. Did I mention that dad cleaned up good? He was a sharp dresser. Except that in the 70’s and early 80’s, guys in rhinestone cowboy suits were considered fashionable. Dad loved his cowboy garb. His dress shoes were always cowboy boots. At his memorial service, Marie made sure that dad’s salmon coloured cowboy suit was on display.
Dad was an avid hunter, a great cook, and a practical joker. This all combined to give him great pleasure serving moose steaks to unsuspecting guests. “You like that?” he would ask when complimented on the meal. Then he would proudly reveal, “You’re eating moose you know”. The first year that he didn’t go on his annual moose hunting trip was traumatic for all of us. But being outside in the cold for hours just wasn’t something his body could tolerate anymore. Though we still wonder how much hunting was really done – there seemed to be a helluva lot of drinking going on then too.
Dad hunted deer for a while too. One day he reported that he was done deer hunting for good. Seems my manly-man father got close enough to a doe to be swept away by those big brown eyes and delicate face. Never again would a deer be caught in the sites of his gun.
Wherever and whenever, dad was a lover, not a fighter.
There are so many things I have already forgotten about the life and times of Emmerson Holliday. Not that I got too close to him to know him well. I lived with him the first three years of my life, then again for a few years in my late teens. Only in the last few years did he give me advice – “keep working for the government – you don’t want to give up that pension” is really the only piece I remember. Oh, and his career advice way back in 1976. I will never forget the look of shock on his face when he found out that I was in grade 11 and had never taken typing. “How are you going to get a job if you don’t know how to type?" I was absolutely dumbfounded that he expected his daughter to be a secretary. He didn’t share my optimism that I could have any career I wanted. (This from the woman who still doesn’t know what she wants to do when she grows up.)
In all kinds of weather, dad would be clad only in shorts - no shirt, no shoes. (His chest was a mass of hair, and I assumed that kept him warm.) What a shock to hear him declare matter-of-factly that because of his diabetes, he couldn’t walk barefoot anymore. Any cuts to his feet could turn into a life-threatening infection. I shared his love of walking barefoot and was saddened to hear how easily he accepted this fate. This was the man who in his forties, when diagnosed with high blood pressure, and told by his doctor “Emmerson, you are going to have to cut out red meat and booze” exclaimed, “Doc, you might as well shoot me now!”. I remember him telling that story repeatedly. But I didn’t understand what he meant until I was in my mid-forties and needed to start managing my high blood pressure.
It’s a long past midnight now. I wanted to post this on the anniversary of the day he died, December 23, 2006. As I look through the few pictures I have of him, I recall his love of boats and fishing. Of how he wore his shirts open half-way down his chest (back in the days when a "button-down kinda guy" was a good thing). His gold chains and diamond rings. And his hats. He was known for his collection of trucker's hats.
I will continue to collect and reflect on those memories. It has been a long time since I have thought about what this man meant to me. He was a father, but I’m not sure he was a father-figure. I worshipped him for years, then was angry with him for quite a while.
But like dad, I’m more of a lover than a fighter. He was who he was. We both could have worked harder to nurture our relationship. I just know that he brought me into this world, loved me, was proud of me and in the end, he made sure I knew that.
Live, love and learn. Thanks Dad.
