True or false

Kate Lahey
Contributor
The silhouette tips of pine trees against the fading sky dance past my window as my Dad drives the minivan down the Trans-Canada Highway toward Newfoundland, his origin, with the smoke of
Toronto in a cloud behind us.
My mother’s wide feet are perched on the dashboard and her shrill voice is going on about slowing down. My brother and I sit quietly in the back seats and watch as the pine trees meld into the glimmering glow of fluorescent street lights and the neon sunrise out our windows, as day turns to dusk on the rural highways of Ontario. All I can see in the dimming, tangerine light is the back of my father’s head. Large like a juicy watermelon, and filled with stories. His theatrical voice is heard over the bumps on the crackling pavement as he tells a story.
“During my grade ten year,” he begins, “I was the kid at the high school dance still wearing polyester pants. I decided to buy a pair of platform boots one day from a store called Arcade down on Water Street, which isn’t there anymore. When I got home I went straight to my room, stood on the several inches of black sole, and, as I attempted to go downstairs – for God knows what reason, I thought I looked cool – I tripped and tumbled down the entire flight of stairs. I quickly proceeded to remove the boots, put them back in the bag and directly into the garbage.”
As the cool night air dances through the window, and nothing is heard but the steady beat of hearts and calm breaths, I realize that my Dad, compared to other parents, is, thankfully, still the kid at the high school dance wearing polyester pants. His thick, dark hair holds flecks of silver and his kind face is wrinkling in a manner befitting such a storyteller. His khaki pants and casual t-shirt relax to his body as he focuses blue eyes on the stoney, black road ahead and drives with calculated precision.
Dad pulls into the nearest Irving Big Stop, an essential to life on the road, and we all pile in for a greasy pit stop family dinner. As our mediocre meat products are placed in front of us, surrounded by a pool of French fries and canned corn, my Dad tells a story.
“When I lived in Zimbabwe, I used to drive around in a beat up old Jeep under the sweltering sun all day long. In the back were cans of cream soda, because it’s the only pop that tastes any good warm. I used to chase giraffes across the infinity of dry planes and watch the gazelles prance through the long, swaying grasses. I was starving one day when I came home and opened up the fridge to see a set of goat eyes looking back at me. Sitting in the fridge was a severed goat head, a gift from one of the men I worked with. At least what we’re eating now doesn’t give us dirty looks.” He laughs his familiar laugh.
As we make our way back to the car, we are content with the sleepy satisfaction of our travels.
My eyelids feel heavy beneath the weight of exhaustion. Since I can remember, my Dad would tuck me into bed every night – right after I’d scared him by jumping out of a hiding spot – and sing me Edelweiss. “Dad? Will you sing me Edelweiss?” Shadows turn to darkness as I slip into a hypnotic sleep, lulled by the comfort of the soft melody and humming engines.
I awake to the less pleasant sounds of roaring trucks as we approach the city of St. John’s. The heads of concrete giants go by my window ominously as we enter the city. The car takes a smooth turn past a whirling intersection and as we pass an old and soon-to-be-abandoned building, my Dad tells a story.
“When I was little, my sisters would take me all over with them. I would help them make barley necklaces, watch them straighten their hair with an iron and make tie-dyed t-shirts. My favourite place to go was the movie theatre. One night they took me to see The Sound of Music. From the second I walked out of that theatre I said ‘The Sound of Music is the greatest movie of all time.’ This is still true. One night we were going to see Mary Queen of Scots, but the early movie was full. When we went back later in the evening, we discovered that the roof had caved in during the early showing. No one got killed, but I also never got to see my movie until years later.”
I laugh gruntingly at his strange sense of humour, which one never gets accustomed too.
My muscles fall loose as I step onto the scalding driveway and stretch my arms towards the billowing clouds. I smile because I am bathing in the knowledge that truly loving another person is about enjoying their attributes and baring their flaws, deciphering their stories, true or false.