I grew up in rural Alberta, where the winters were like death and the summers were full of mosquitoes that can carry you away. It was a happy childhood; I was the typical 80s child who drank out of the garden hose and wore no bike helmet.  

The details of my childhood are quite foggy, and most of the stories are recalled through what my Mom and brother have told me, but what I do remember is how often my father told me that I had so much potential.  

The idea that I could do, be, and have anything I wanted in life was instilled into me at a very early age. 

At the time, I didn’t know what it meant, but I trusted my dad and knew he wouldn’t steer me wrong.

Even though my dad was my biggest cheerleader, there were many opportunities for us to butt heads.  We had very similar personalities and were both stubborn as fuck.  

He was intimidating, too. With a second-degree black belt in Shotokan karate, he wasn’t a man to be messed with. When we butted heads, it was never an argument. I knew better than to talk back. Instead, I would sit in silence and glare at him the entire time he lectured me. I knew that if I were to say something, I’d say something I regret. But I think that pissed him off even more. He always wanted me to talk and communicate, but I was so terrified that I stayed quiet.  

When we disagreed, we disagreed hard, but he was always on my side.

Not once did I ever think he didn’t believe in me. I knew he would always have my back.

I remember one time, my cousin and I had built this intricate treehouse. It spanned across 3 different trees and had rope ladders and suspension bridges.  We spent hours in that treehouse together, plotting and scheming, coming up with ideas to conquer the world.  

At one point, we decided we needed to booby-trap the place.

We did not think this through.

We spent days digging a gigantic hole right in the middle of the pathway that went between the treehouse and the grain bins—the road that my dad always drove the forklift through. We then proceeded to fill the hole with everything nasty we could find—used engine oil, vegetable oil from the egg barns, cow shit, feathers, carrageenan seeds—the list went on. We then covered the hole and disguised it so that no one would know it was there.

Well, as you can imagine, one day, my dad drove the forklift through that pathway and straight into our cleverly disguised trap.

And that’s when shit hit the fan.

I’d never heard words like that before, and I was scared to death. My cousin and I knew that the end of the treehouse had arrived, and it was torn down that day.

But even in his anger, I knew that he was doing the best he could do to raise a daughter in this world. I knew he was angry, but it was because I hadn’t thought about the consequences of my actions. I had only focused on what I wanted, and not what was best for everyone.

Needless to say, that story gets told at almost every family gathering, whenever my cousin and I are together because there were many shenanigans that he and I got into.