Three thousand telephone poles later

The average telephone pole is 40 ft high.

During his 30 year career at a telecom company, my father would have climbed and repaired easily over three thousand poles all over the prairie landscape for an estimated total climb of 3.6 million feet. Today trucks with mechanical cranes allow the telephone repairman easy access to the top of the pole with little effort, but my childhood is filled with memories of the heavy thud his work boots made with their metal spurs when dropped at the front entrance of our family home at the end of each workday. As far as technology in the workplace went, Dad was happy when he was able to clip a small AM only radio to his toolbelt so he had some company at the top.

A few of those poles would pay for the A&W meal (burgers and root beer floats) that would be my parent’s first date. A few hundred poles later, two rings were bought, a home built and a family made.

Over the course of his lifetime climbing those three thousand poles would ultimately pay for not one but three homes, a summer cabin complete with toys, many vacation road trips and the typical middle class childhood peppered with dance class and hockey practice taken for granted by most kids today. He was a provider, a man that thrived at taking care of those he had committed to taking care of. Be it with a plate of freshly made meatballs or a giant bear hug, someone always had your back and you always felt certain of this.

Not a saint by any means, the man also had his issues. He was human. My parent’s marriage was often strained in the way a thirty plus year relationship can be. Morphing from lovers, to companions and ultimately witnesses to a legacy bearing fruit through the successes of the children. The bond between us as father and son had a few years of estrangement where he would struggle to get a handle on his alcoholism and I my own personal identity. Despite the ebb and flow of our bonds as a family, his commitment to us remained the rudder of our collective ship.

After his cremation his ring returned home alongside the urn with his ashes. The moment it came back into the house I claimed it as my own keepsake and took it with me back to Montreal where it would sit in a box on my bookshelf for two years. Safe at hand incase I needed it.

Since the breakup I have started wearing the ring. First around my new place at night when I am alone. Much like the familiarity of a childhood toy, it made me feel safe and helped me sleep amongst the emotions. The last few weeks as my mind has calmed I have been wearing it outside the home. A simple elegant silver band, it sits on my right hand accessorizing nicely with my new watch collection.

I used to think it was silly I was doing this, potentially perceived as sad considering the circumstances. I didn’t want to give the impression of being my own version of Miss Havisham; forever stuck in disappointment over unmet great expectations. The ring has nothing to do with the end of our relationship ironically. Now I am used to wearing it and I smile when the sun hits it, the glare makes me feel anything but stuck.

‘Bradley do you have news, did you get married since the last time we saw each other?’ a friend says jokingly as she sits down for dinner noticing the ring. ‘Yes, to myself’ I said, trying to deflect the attention to the ring with a joke, ‘best lover I have ever had so thought it was about time I made it official.’ We both giggled as the wine was poured. It was a joke but a joke that was still so full of truth.

When I look at the ring closely there are these little scars on it that slightly dull the shine. Tiny dents and scratches from one of the many telephone pole climbs or cabin renovations; a personal totem that never left his finger. I can still remember holding his hand in palliative care that last night, looking down at the ring and saying to him with profound admiration ‘you did good dad, you had a great life’.

These last three months have redefined me, into what I am not sure yet as I am still feeling truly rudderless. I am sure there will be a day in which it all just makes sense. Amongst the emotional excavation of late I have come to know myself in ways more intimately than I have have been ready to in the past. Though I don’t know where I will be in six months time or ten years time, I know that I want a ‘great life’.

I have this fantasy where Dad is alive and we are discussing like two philosophers about what it means to be a ‘great man’ and to have a ‘great life’ but I am aware this is a fantasy. Dad would never talk like this, he would never think that there could be any other way a man could be, any other way way a man would chose to be. It would be pointless to him to ponder not being a provider so the conversation would be short and then he would ask if I wanted something to eat.

When I see the ring, I smile knowing this. Knowing I come from this.

‘What’s going on now, what’s with the tugging at the ring, what are you thinking?’ my therapist asked me last session when she noticed I was pulling at the ring nervously. I was taking a pensive pause while we discussed something with emotional sharp corners.

‘Just checking in with Dad’