Sylvie takes it. He pulls her into a rough hug, holds tight for a few moments, then kisses the top of her head. “You’re freezing,” he says and takes off his jacket, helps her into it. She tries to hug him again, but he takes her wrists, presses them back to her sides, then walks away. Sylvie watches until he disappears around a bend.

TWENTY-THREE

Sylvie

My dad walks away and the years spool out.

He read bedtime stories in different voices—Charlotte’s Web, Watership Down, The Secret Garden—taught me how to climb a Douglas fir and get back down, to drive a 3616 narrow cab tractor, work the three-on-the-tree transmission of our old truck, change a tire on a bike or any vehicle. I know how lightning makes thunder and how to rebuild a hydraulic pump.

During camping trips he explained that I should stand my ground with cougars, play dead if a grizzly attacked, but make noise and fight back with black bears. I can set up a tent, tie flies, catch and clean a fish, cook it on a cedar plank over a fire I make. He effortlessly imparted wisdom about farming. I understand that certain pear crops will bear fruit three years after planting but won’t produce a full crop for five to seven years while others take up to twelve; trees should be planted in late winter or early spring in fertile, well-drained soil with good air circulation; rootstocks must be resistant to fire blight and other diseases; birds that eat insects are an orchardist’s friend and so are wasps and earwigs that eat insect larva; and field peas can maintain soil moisture during a dry summer.

His wisdom didn’t just stem from being an outdoorsman or an orchardist. He modeled how to treat people with fairness and respect by the way he worked alongside the families that helped maintain our orchards. He handled Mom with kindness, Eddie and his family with consideration, and until I left, he always made time to listen and love me. We were a team every Fourth of July race. There was no one else I wanted to sit beside during fireworks. I could always pick out his cheers at diving meets, even when I lost. When I was sad, his hugs were a tonic. He was a whiz at checkers but never let me win—he made me earn it. When Mom attended her club meetings, we’d sneak out for pizza and huckleberry shakes.

But he was far from perfect . . .

Dad kept the peace in our house when Mom and I fought but never questioned her version of the truth or protected me from her wrath. Instead, he made me apologize without hearing my side. He couldn’t separate his dreams from my own and didn’t have enough room for both. He was prejudiced against some Mexicans, though Eddie is his best friend. He voted Republican, no matter what, was a proud member of the NRA, and didn’t support gay rights though he told Mom she should pray for those folks. He was good, bad, prejudiced, loving, kind, complicated, cruel, and human . . . and a part of my foundation feels ripped away as he disappears around the bend.