Happy Father’s Day to a sweet, gentle man gone way before his time

In a childhood of abuse and chaos, Dad left his youngest child with positive — sometimes even humorous — memories

Dad, Arthur Lawrence Claes, pictured in the early 1980s. Dad died in 1984 at the age of 53. I miss him dearly.

By Yvonne C. Claes

I wish I had a clearer picture of Dad to share, but unfortunately, I don’t have many from which to choose (long story, but read here to learn more about my family: https://medium.com/@yvonneclaes/we-all-know-an-amber-3f5227f73160).

Anyway, #HappyFathersDay to the most inspirational person I have ever known. Instead of posting about how he is no longer with me, I thought I’d share a childhood memory.

Dad normally was the quietest person in the room. He was a gentle man of few words. And he had class; he never looked down on anyone and treated everyone he met with respect, regardless of their station in life. He was educated, rarely swore, and if something wasn’t going right, he would just shrug it off. He rarely got angry.

Well, my parents decided one Christmas to cut down “Larry’s Tree” in the backyard and use it as that season’s family Christmas tree (Larry is my brother, and the pine had been planted the year he was born).

I, being the youngest, was tasked with helping Dad cut down the tree. My job was to hold onto the tree’s trunk while Dad sawed away at its base. It was snowing — heavily — outside when Dad decided to cut down the tree. Icy wind lashed our faces; it was difficult to see.

The tree wasn’t that tall, maybe 5 feet, but it had a thick trunk. So Dad was sawing, and sawing and sawing, and I was blinking snow out of my eyes while trying to hold the tree steady.

After what seemed like half an hour — it more than likely was 10 minutes tops — I suddenly heard something from Dad that was so out-of-character that I became frightened and then began to laugh into my thick scarf.

“Godd*mn, f*ck…”

And the string of obscenities continued. Nonstop. For several minutes straight. The tree finally relented, and Dad, still swearing, proudly dragged it into the house, like an epic hero who had just slayed a dragon.

“How did it go?” Mom asked as Dad and I shook off our coats and boots, chunks of snow thudding on the back stairs.

“Oh, fine,” Dad replied without a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“Wait, what?” I thought, and was about to tell on Dad for his verbal tirade in the backyard. But just then I caught his glance which communicated, “Hey kid. Do me a favor and keep it to yourself.”

So I did.

Dad and I shared several little secrets like this. And these covert communications between us made me feel special among his five children.

So today, my 38th year without him, I wish Dad the best of Father’s Days.

And wherever you are, Dad, I hope they at least have an electric saw! XOX

©Yvonne C. Claes, 2022. I own this content. You can share my column, but make sure my name is left on it. Thanks!