What was my dad?

Well, with a title this cryptic, I’m going to let you down immediately and confirm that he was not a member of a secret organization, nor a high ranking government official, and he never (to my knowledge) rubbed shoulders with any of the Hollywood elite (though he took Joni Mitchell on a date once and saw Clint Eastwood playing golf).

My dad’s name was Alexander Robert Cunningham, but Sandy to anyone who knew him.

He was born in the early 40’s, as he was fond of mentioning to anyone that would listen, without a silver spoon in his mouth, on Ploueg Street in Drumheller, Alberta.

Raised mostly by his grandmother and without much connection to his absentee parents, his childhood had a lot of those stories you see in old TV shows that you can’t believe were ever real.

‘So, me and Billy Gundersun stoled the dynamite RIGHT OUT of the back of the government work truck! We didn’t right know what’s to do with it, so we buried it, lit the fuse, and that’s why there’s now a huge hole in the ground , officer!’

When I was a kid I thought these stories were amazing. Now that I’m a parent, I still do, just for a totally different reason. Whenever he would finish one, he would see the look in my eyes and then immediately try and backtrack and make it a cautionary tale. Sometimes that worked, sometimes it didn’t.

Because his parents weren’t a part of his life, he was very sure that he wanted to be a part of his kids. 

This wasn’t a fairy tale, it was the late 70’s / early 80’s, and he had started a new business almost the day I was born, but when he came home I remember running to him and saying ‘let’s play’, and we frequently did. 

Along with my sister, we made a go-kart out of scrap wood (Complete death trap) and a 747 out of a refrigerator box (looked nothing like a 747 but was awesome).

He was a mechanic and would bring home car parts that we could wire to batteries to learn about electricity. I was the only kid in my class who, at the flick of a switch, could fire an AHOOOOGA car horn so loud it would make your mom curse you 3 rooms away.

When I was older, I played basketball and volleyball. He showed up to practice with orange slices (he heard it helped with energy) watched countless NBA games so he could offer me advice, which consisted mainly of ‘flicking my wrist’ when I shot the ball.

He and my mother came to all my tournaments, my high school graduation, and then later, when I graduated with a broadcast journalism degree in Lethbridge, he was there.

He was at my wedding to my beautiful wife, he was the first one I called (along with my mom!) for the birth of both of my kids, and walked around every house I have ever owned, checking for things he thought might need replacing.

During visits, he was always the first one to play with the kids.  He was endlessly inventive (and surprisingly patient) when he was playing 'Papa. 

What my dad was, more than anything, for anyone who needed him, was there.

He was there when I needed him (car advice), and he was there when I didn’t (dating advice). If I called, he answered. Everywhere I went in the world. 

He never said he was too busy to talk, and even if most of the time our conversations were just avenues for him to complain, I knew that if I called, he’d pick up the phone. 

Then he died.

And for a while I was sad, and then I was mad. Furious even, at everyone who hadn’t had this happen to them.

But that anger took me to therapy, and therapy has taken me, eventually, to here. This podcast.

What Roger and I are is here. That’s the core of it. 

We’ll listen, we’ll give advice, and hopefully some of it will be helpful. But we know what it means when someone who's been there your whole life is suddenly not there, and hopefully, we can make that easier. 

Welcome to the Dead Dads Podcast.