Short Story
"Dad! You have to slow down a bit! It's only been a week since you came home!"
Dad looked at me but said nothing, as he continued to limp around the room.
"C'mon Dad...I worry about you!" I said.
He turned and said, "Son, I'm trying to concentrate on my walking, and it's difficult to do that with your yelling in my ear with every other step".
"Well I'm trying to take care of you," I replied.
"You have your duty to go work in the field while I am injured. I have a wife who can attend to my needs, you know," he said.
It happened a month and a half ago, when we received a letter from the Lower Canada Militia saying that my father was injured. The worst came to mind, as I pictured my hard-working dad without an arm or a leg. I remembered the day when he was called by the Militia commander, asking my father for his services in the War of 1812.
It was greatly difficult without him, and I was only 15 so I was not allowed to join my dad in the army. What I was left with was the job that my dad had before leaving to fight for our country: working on the farmland. I had always helped out my dad, but never taken on the entire job of plowing the field, tending to the animals, and cleaning the barn. I never realized how much my dad worked hard for our family, in which included him, my mom, my younger sister Molly and myself. Some days I worked over 12 hours; it was not because there was an excess amount of work to be done, but because I could not do the job as effectively or quickly as my father could. It was even more tiring because I had to wake up early the next day to prepare for the work ahead.
"Don't worry, Dad. I've been working on the field for nearly a year now, and I know the field almost as well as you do now," I said.
"I know you've been doing a good job. No 15 year old boy should be working 10 hours a day to put food on the table for 3 people three times a day, everyday. But I know you're tired after each day, and now that I am back home, I have my job to go back to," he replied.
It was a relief when our dad showed up last week with stitches on his right thigh; his injury was two bullet, one that pierced his right thigh and another that cracked his right shinbone. However, the commander sent him home, saying that it was nearly impossible for my dad to be effective in the battles any longer, and that he had fufilled his duty as a Militia soldier who deserved to be back home with his family.
Of course, this was great news. The bad news was that he needed time, a lot of time, to be able to walk properly without the cane. In order to do this, he had to walk around, but not overwork it because the injury may last even longer.
"Son, I know what you're thinking. But I need to become healed. If I'm healed, I can walk. If I can walk, I can work. If I can work, I can go back out on to the field. If I can go back on to the field, I can provide for my family. It's what I have always been doing, and it's what I will continue to do. Provide for my family. It's hard work, but it's what I need to do. Do you understand?"
During that time, I just wanted him to rest, that was all. What he was said to me, I wasn't sure I understood back then. Now that I recall upon this memory, this event in my life, I am beginning to understand what he meant. To provide for my family.
