In us Dad trusted: anecdotes from Chris

Thanks, Dad, for your wonderful family. You picked your parents well.

Those original six Tancocks along with their spouses, as well as Dunner and Helen, helped create an incredibly close nucleus that expanded its orbit year after year. That first Christmas gathering at Aunty Paul’s house ended up as a tradition that lasted for decades.

Thanks for moving to the Beaches when we were very young. What a great place to grow up. You allowed us the freedom to roam the streets, hop on the Queen streetcars alone at the ages of 6 and 7 and trusted us enough that we could find our way home.

Up in flames

But that wasn’t the first time that Dad trusted us when maybe he shouldn’t have.

Dad showed early on that he was willing to give Martha and me some rope. When Martha was 4 and a half and I was only 3, Mom was in the hospital in labour with Pamela. Dad was babysitting us and because it was my birthday, we were allowed to light a candle for the occasion. After we finished eating, Dad excused himself to go to the washroom. He warned us before leaving the table: “Under no circumstances are either of you to touch that candle.”

Now, in those days a visit to the washroom for Dad wasn’t just because nature called, it was to read. Martha and I had ample time to stare at that candle. It was burning low and the saucer it sat in was filling up with melting wax. We decided it needed to be drained. No need to worry, Dad, you can trust us. We carefully placed the candle on the floor and attempted to drain the wax onto another saucer. But the flame was too hot, we let go and the candle fell onto the hardwood floor and into the puddle of wax. Flames spread all over the place and we started screaming. Dad dropped his book, stormed out of the washroom down the hallway into the dining room and quickly stomped out the little bonfire burning in the middle of the dining room floor. 

Dad didn’t yell at us. He realized his trust in us was misplaced but his thoughts soon turned to worry: how was he going to explain to his wife why there was a black charred area the size of a large dinner plate on the dining room floor.

Revving the engine

But Dad was undeterred. He wasn’t going to give up on trusting his kids. Especially that boy. 

When I was about 5, we were getting ready to head up to our grandparents’ cottage and Dad was in charge of loading the car. In those days, cars needed to be warmed up. But this car, an ancient Prefect, kept stalling.

Dad’s solution was to sit me on the edge of the driver seat, get me to hang tightly onto the steering wheel then stretch my leg long enough so I could keep the accelerator slightly depressed just enough to keep the engine running. This meant Dad was freed to go into the house to get more stuff to go into the car. What could go wrong?

My leg got tired. But I did not want to disappoint. So I crawled down onto the floor and pushed as hard as I could on the gas pedal with my hand. I heard the screen door crash open as Dad stormed out the house yelling at the top of his lungs. All he could see was an empty car revving like mad. He pulled me out of the driver side floor and I instantly recognized the panicked look he had had when he stomped out the fire on the dining room floor only two years earlier.

But Dad’s quarrel was not with me. He quickly realized that he now had to walk back into the house, head bowed, and explain to Mom why he had left a 5-year-old in the driver’s seat while the car was still running. 

Lesson on finishing last 

There was always a lesson in Dad’s approach.  He loved track and field and used to drag me to regional meets at Varsity Stadium in Toronto.

He was a coach of the long-distance running team. The first event he took me to featured one of his students competing for the first time in a two-mile race against a fairly elite field. We watched the race and kept an eye out for his student. He finished last. When I pointed this out to Dad, he noted that it was participation and completion that was important. Finishing last did not matter.

Later on Dad became an avid runner himself, usually jogging five miles a day. He passed that interest on to me. One day I announced to Dad that I was going to run in a half marathon. He butted out his cigarette, looked at me and said, “I think I’ll join you.”

Race day came. There we were, father and son standing together on the starting line. We ran together for a time but he wanted me to run at my pace so I left him behind and told him that we would meet at the finish.

I finished the run and anxiously waited for Dad to cross the finish line. I thought maybe I missed him when workers started to dismantle the posts at the finish. But someone then spoke up saying that there were two runners still out on the course. We looked up and there was Dad and another runner 200 yards out. As they approached the finish line, Dad put on a desperate dash at the end to edge out the final runner. When I praised him for the fine sprint he had mustered at the finish, he puffed out, bent over with his hands on his knees: “No way I was going to finish last!”

* * *

No Dad, you did not finish last. Despite your health hurdles and against all odds, you hung in there for so long that one might suspect that that was exactly what you were trying to do.

Your accomplishments were many, not the least of which was being a great father to me and the girls. But now it’s time to rest Dad. Breathe easy. We miss you.