beckoned to me, and Jake was my willing partner. I was the Bernie Parent to his Bobby Clarke, the Jerry Rice to his Joe Montana, the pilot to his brakeman on our tobogganing adventures. We built our own skateboard decks, experimenting with different designs for a skiing-inspired course of skateboard slalom, an alternative to the half-pipe and freestyle events most skaters were doing. We took the bus across the city weekly with the boys from our street to ride the new skate park in an industrial warehouse run by a bunch of Dogtown wannabes.
As teens, we skied the notorious vertical drop of Mount Norquay’s North American run until our legs turned to rubber and our woolens hung on us, soaked in sweat. We took over Dad’s basement workshop each winter to tape our hockey sticks, sharpen our ski edges, drip PTEX into the gouges in their bases, and read Ski Magazine together as we glanced at the sky for any signs of snow. Ours was an easy partnership, free of the bickering and fights common among siblings. Jake was a gentle kid, much like our father; I was the feisty one, prone to more outward expressions of anger and frustration from which he would often talk me down. He never laid a hand on me aggressively or angrily.
The only physical confrontation I can remember between us as kids was when I punched him in the stomach, for reasons I can’t recall. What I do remember was the ease with which his thin belly absorbed my fist and the mixture of shock, disappointment, and sadness on his face. I recall wondering at how he conveyed all those emotions to me in that briefest of instants. The idea that I could cause another person pain or hurt seemed unfathomable to me, yet here was my best friend—my brother—and I had hurt him. Years later, when I was twenty-five and trying to convey my gender struggle to my parents and siblings, he would tell me, “You’re ruining our family.” Only then would I understand how he must have felt that day years before when I punched him for no good reason.
We lived across the street from Clem Gardner Elementary School but attended St. Leo’s, a Catholic school a few blocks away. Occasionally, we had days off that the Clem Gardner kids didn’t share. On one such sunny, winter afternoon, Jake and I—no older than eight and seven—took to the front yard for a little tobogganing. We raced up and down the twenty-five-foot slope leading down to the sidewalk. To call it a hill was way beyond generous, but we piloted our thirty-inch-round red Super Saucers—disc-shaped plastic sleds—down the slight grade like it was the Matterhorn. Mom was inside with Katherine, now four.
On one successful ride, Jake slid onto the sidewalk just as a boy about his age was walking past on his way home from school, forcing him off the sidewalk to avoid getting hit. Jake stood up beside his saucer.
“Sorry,” he said as he made his way back to our yard.
“Don’t be such an egghead, stupid!” the boy shouted, spitting on the snow near Jake’s boot. “Ya stupidhead!” Jake considered him briefly before passively continuing back to the top of the slope. I had watched the scene unfold from a few yards away, outrage growing in me like a tidal wave. Without any thought, I flipped my saucer upside down, drew my arm back in a Frisbee-tossing motion, and flung the disc with all my might. It dipped and weaved like a surface-to-air missile, the saucer’s edge catching the boy right on the side of the head above the ear, taking his wool hat with it. He dropped like a shot moose, silent for several tense moments. Jake and I looked at each other in horror, then back at the boy. Suddenly, he bounced back to his feet, staring wild-eyed at me in stunned silence before tipping his head back and opening his mouth to emit a loud, cartoonish wail. I half-expected to see WAAAAAAAAAAAH! trailing behind him in the air. He turned on his heel, hat still in the gutter, broke into a sprint, and ran away up the street, shouting, “MOMMMMMMMMMMM!” which we heard long after he’d vanished from our sight. Jake set his saucer down, climbed aboard, and slid down the slope. I did the same, neither of us mentioning what had happened.
WE HARDLY SAW Dad during the week, except very early in the morning and late at the end of the day, when he’d walk in the door, still nattily dressed in a dark suit and tie after a long day of school or school board meetings.
His weekend clothes in those years were work wear, suited to a construction site, not any office or golf course. The scent of campfire, fermented grapes, and freshly cut lumber emanated from my father’s ubiquitous green sweater; an olfactory roadmap of weekends and summers past. I don’t remember my mother ever washing it, but it never smelled of sweat or anything foul—just Dad, his projects, and maybe a hint of Old Spice. On Sunday afternoons, to help him morph back into his Clark Kent persona as a school principal, I polished his dress shoes—several black pairs and one brown—for which I was rewarded twenty-five cents a pair. The feeling of the small silver toggle between my index finger and thumb remains with me, juggling the circular metal cap bearing the kiwi logo to just the right position for snapping the can closed, preserving the moisture for the next week. Shoe polish and that sweater; the building blocks of my dad. Hard work intertwined with and fueled by a love of detail, whether it be building a home, teaching high school calculus, or making wine.
As a youngster, I followed him around on weekends and during summers to auctions, lumber yards, his out-of-town garden plot, paint stores—whatever grand project he undertook beckoned my preteen self along to simply bask in his seemingly boundless knowledge and patience. At lunch, I would marvel at his hand, where there would have appeared a fresh cut that had been absent at breakfast. His hands mesmerized me: large, strong, and callused, but with the delicate fingers of a surgeon. Sometimes I would ask him how he got injured. He’d glance at the wound, noticing it for the first time.
“Oh, look at that. I must’ve caught it on something,” he’d say, putting the cut to his mouth to clean the blood before returning to his sandwich. Whenever the wounds were mine, he’d have a look, find me a Band-Aid if necessary, then ruffle my hair or chuck me on the chin, telling me, “It’ll be all gone by the time you get married.” In early years, I’d laugh along with him at the absurdity of a kid my age ever getting hitched. As I grew older, he’d say the same thing when we’d roof together and I’d wince from the blisters on my shoulders, made by carrying loads of shingles up the ladder. His words about recovering before my wedding—intended to comfort me—would burden me with a sadness I couldn’t understand the source of, a sense that I wouldn’t be worthy of marrying, despite Dad speaking as though I was the most eligible girl in the world. In his eyes, why wouldn’t I be? In his eyes, all of my injuries could be fixed by a kiss and a Band-Aid.
He’d begun studying at the University of Saskatchewan after high school with the goal of becoming a doctor. It wasn’t until his funeral, many decades later, that I would learn that his father and mother disagreed about him continuing his studies; Grandpa Shenher wanted him to remain on the family farm, but my grandmother put her foot down and insisted Dad be permitted to pursue an education. Dad had three older brothers and Grandma Shenher argued they were more than capable—well, two of them were, and the eldest, a dedicated drinker and layabout, could be whipped into shape—and so it was that my dad became the only one in his family to obtain a university degree.
He’d hoped, after completing his undergraduate studies, to work for a few years as a teacher and save the money necessary to return to medical school, but he never did. While he did become a fine math teacher and school administrator, his talented hands never graced the medical profession, though he did put them to good use in woodworking and carpentry projects. I have no memory of him expressing regret about this or anything else in his life.
In Dad’s world, you did what you needed to do without complaint and without thinking of yourself. A man did what was necessary to make a living, to feed his family, to support his kids, to serve his God. The idea of Dad having a midlife crisis or leaving us to pursue a life unlived seemed as ludicrous as him becoming an exotic dancer. He was quietly dutiful, never resentful, always generous, and happiest among family, students, and friends.
I’d watch his hands grip a metal razor and twist the handle, until—like magic—the top would open like a flower blooming, exposing the
