Father's Day

The Sounds of Wet Canvas

The days were always exciting as we prepared for a trip. My father would go into the storage area and be greeted by a group of old friends; the camping equipment that was so near and dear to his heart. The Old one, the Packer Nelson pack board complete with its canvas bag holding fast to it's wooden frame. Packer Nelson, of course, was in charge. He was the oldest and had the most to share, the longest miles to remember. Stories that could turn your hair grey he would say. We believed.

Following behind Packer Neldon was the Egyptian Silk Pup Tent. Delicate and fine you could almost hear her sigh as she was once again allowed to flutter and flash her robins egg blue cloth in the wind. Released from a year tied tightly, the joy that she shared as she burst out of her confinment was infecteous and joyfilled. Last, of course, was the Coleman stove, and his sidekick the red gas can. Dented and bruised he was right where he always was just inside the green lid under the grill, blacked by years of use. Together they were the always the quiet ones. Always there together, always ready to serve but above all... always dangerous.  Little people were wise to steer a wide berth around these two, and we did.


Carefully like a gentle friend my father would lay each item out behind the house on the grass . Yearly this right of passage would act itself out again as each piece was brought out from it's long winter hibrenation. Each item, the axe, the hat, the boots restless to once again tell it's own story. Stories that if you listened you could hear them share with each other and they greeted each other after a long winter away. Together once again they spoke,  as one by one they were squeezed into the backbacks.

As the stories were told and as Father prepared for all the lay ahead, I could feel the excitement growing in my heart. One can of white gas? Check. Pots, Pans, Plates and Cutlery? Check. Sleeping bag, socks, clothes, and hat? Check. All the old friends ready and willing to once again go on a great adventure.

Each item carefully noted and carefully readied for the backpacks. Each provision prepared, each friend reaquainted. After all this noise, I knew, I just knew it would be my dad's turn. His turn to translate all the noise into stories I could understand. Stories to dream about, to capture my young imagination and release it onto a waiting world. Stories from the sounds of wet canvas. 

“A boy has a lot to learn in his journey to become a man, and he becomes a man only through the active intervention of his father and the fellowship of men. It cannot happen any other way…
This we must understand: masculinity is bestowed.”

Today it is the smells that I remember the best. From the musty pine smell to the smell of the muskoil coating the boots. Each smell today is just outside my memory, waiting patiently for that moment when a single whiff memories will rush back bringing back a flood of memories and with them... my Dad. Once again he will be standing beside me... once again, surveying all the supplies.

Today on this fathers day, my father's voice is silent, his words are no longer readily available to hear. Today I listen for the sound of another young man growing into his boots. In among the volume and noise, the hustle and hurray of a graduation from his highschool, there hangs an old Packer Nelson Pack Board, now safely resting in my garage. Waiting once again for a new set of young ears to lean in real close and listen carefully for the sounds of wet canvas.