Tying Laces with My Dad (short story) by Leanne Dyck

 When I have trouble tying my shoelaces, my dad...

One of my earliest memories of my dad inspired this short story.

(my dad circa 1980s)

Tying Laces with My Dad

A lace in each hand, I glare at my shoe. I want to scream. I want to yell. I want to tear the shoe apart. Why won't these dumb, stupid laces work? What is wrong with them? What is wrong with me? 

The sound that explodes from my mouth makes my dad pause. "What's the matter, Honey?"

I look up at him with a face full of tears. I crawl onto his lap and find comfort in his arms.

He spins a tale just for me. "All the trains had tried to climb the tall mountain. All had failed. The only one left was the smallest engine. No one thought he could succeed. No one believed he could, but he kept saying, I think I can. I think I can. It took all the strength he had to climb that mountain. But he didn't give up, he just kept trying. I think I can. I think I can. And do you know what?"

My tears had stopped falling, and my face was dry. "What?"

"He made it all the way to the top of that mountain. He succeeded when everyone else had failed." My dad gave me a hug. "Just try. That's all we want--that's all anyone can ever ask from you--try." We exchanged a smile. "Would you like me to tie your shoes?"

I thought about his offer. I wanted to say yes, but the little engine hadn't given up, and so... and so... "You can tie this shoe," I stuck my left leg straight out so Dad could tie that shoe. "And I can tie this one." I bent over the shoe on my right foot.

"Let me see if I remember how this works," my dad said. "Make two rabbit ears." We made two rabbit ears. "Fold one rabbit ear over the other. Oh, this is the tricky part. I'll have to try that again. Okay, that time it worked. Let's do it one more time to make a good knot. And done."

"We did it," we sing.

And do you know what? To this very day, most of my shoes are... slip-ons. (My dad also taught me the importance of humour.)

written on Monday, May 12, 2025

photo by ldyck

On this blog in June...

Sunday, June 22

Book Review for Indigenous Day

Two Tricksters Find Friendship by Johnny Aitken and Jess Willows

...is a year in the life of a new mutually supportive friendship between Jessie, a white girl, and Johnny, an Indigenous boy

Sunday, June 29

Book Reviews for Canada Day

Canadian Reads: a collection of my favourite books by Canadian authors

photo by ldyck

My fingers

on my keyboard

My head 

in the clouds

I relish

my days

He’s Cool (short memoir)

Spring Cleaning (short story) by Leanne Dyck

'Spring' ldyck

Mom didn't hide her disdain for our messy basement. "Oh, that man and his endless clutter."
So when Mom and Dad left for the day, I rolled-up my sleeves and descended the stairs. Rock walls and floor, I felt like a bear in a cave. In a corner, a room was framed in 4 x 4. Inside:  rows and rows, towers and towers of boxes. Dad's stuff.
My plan:  anything of value would stay; trash would go.
Many of the boxes were full of books--mostly Reader's Digests:  mildew copies, some dating back to the 1920s. I tore out interesting articles and trashed the rest.
When my parents returned I was thrilled to show them the progress I'd made.
Looking back, I'm amazed at Dad's reaction. He didn't scream or blame. He just looked at the remains of his collection with calm acceptance. 

photo ldyck

Next post: How I Wrote my First Book
This article was published in a knitting newsletter several years ago. On Sunday, April 15 at (approximately) 5 PM PT, I'll share it with you. Now, years later, I don't agree with everything I wrote but... I do bravely on.

'Abby supervising docking' ldyck

Sharing My Author Journey...

Two Generations of Remembering by Leanne Dyck

My husband wearing his poppy

A collection of two stories--my dad's story (published in Memory Open the Door, 1970 and 1974) about his dad's WWI service, and my story about my dad's WWII service (written in 2003).

Remembering Him

I once knew a man. Although he was old when I met him, by the twinkle in his eye, I could see glimpses of the young man he had once been.

He was of age upon the onset of the second world war and, like the other men of his community, he was eager to enlist--an eagerness driven by a passion to see the world, and to service his country. He'd wanted to sail from cloud to cloud on the wings of a huge, iron bird. But, it was not to be. Instead of traveling to distant lands--Italy, France, Japan--the man was stationed at a radar base in Newfoundland. There were memories he would never share; horrors he would never live.

In sadness and in pride, the man stood straight and tall each and every Remembrance Day. He'd known the men who never returned. They'd been his playmates, classmates, friends. And he ensured that I honoured them, as well. Through him, I saw the soldiers not as faded images from a distant past but as flesh and blood.

I once knew a man. That man was my dad.

My dad wrote the story that follows and it was published in our community (Eriksdale, Manitoba) history book Memory Opens the Door (first printing 1970; second printing 1974)

My dad (taken on my wedding day)

A Tale From the First World War

One day after the folks had moved to B.C., they were back here visiting and Dad went with me to the train to pick up the mail for the Post Office.

One of the crew stepped off the train and Dad said, "Well if it isn't Wilfred Lamb."

They shook hands and, pleased to meet each other, immediately began talking. As they chatted Dad told Mr. Lamb about a notice he had found on the wall of a bombed-out building in France, during the First World War. The notice advertised a boxing match, to be held in Eriksdale, between Wilfred Lamb, Peter Whittall and others.

Thinking the paper would be of interest to Mr. Lamb, Dad arranged to meet him on the station next morning when the train went south, to give it to him. Then he went on to tell me how he had come by the notice.

"I was with the 16th Canadian, and they were a pretty tough regiment. It didn't matter how tired we were, we always marched back from the lines. But, there came a day at Passchendaele, when the regiment was in bad shape, we were told to make our way back as best we could. I was so weary I just had to sit down to rest.

"While I rested, my pack of ammunition slipped off unnoticed and I had gone quite a distance before I realized what had happened. Without protection, I would not get far, so I picked up the rifle and ammunition of the first dead German soldier I came across and continued to make my way back. I met one of our officers and hurried to explain the lost equipment and my reluctance to be travelling in that area without some means of protection. 

" 'Good thinking, soldier, carry on,' was his comment.

"When I came across the bombed-out shell of a building, I knew it was time to rest awhile, for I was incredibly tired. I probably dozed a bit, then as I looked around in the dim light I could see 'ERIKSDALE' in huge letters on the wall opposite my resting place. That shook my confidence considerably. It just could not be, not here in France. But, it was there. Each time I looked up I could see it. Clearly, I had become deranged, 'looped' as some of the fellows called it. I hurried away from that spot, yet, that word 'ERIKSDALE' on that wall haunted me. Had I been seeing things, or was it real?

Next day I went back to that place. It was there. On a great big notice! A notice telling of a boxing match, to be held in far away Eriksdale, Manitoba. My home town! I took it down and sent it home and that is the paper I shall give to Wilfred Lamb, tomorrow."

How did the notice get on a wall in France? Who knows? I have pondered that question many times.

Probably, someone from 'home' had sent it to their soldier at the front. He, for want of something better to do, had hung it there -- and perhaps for a few moments forgot the Hell of War as he gazed at an ordinary notice from home -- and savored in dreams, the day when he would be 'going home'.

It is quite a few years since that day. Wilfred Lamb passed away not long after and I have often thought I should have had a copy made of that notice, but -- one is inclined to put off things not of immediate concern. Now, it is too late.

***

If you would like to learn more about Passchendaele and how it affected Canada and Canadians, I highly recommend watching this movie Passchendaele (written, directed and staring Paul Gross)

Remembrance Day on Mayne Island, 2013

 musicians

 colour guard

destination

***
Next post:  Wolf