I'm a guy who remembers dates.
I can tell you the day and date that I graduated from high school. I can tell you the same regarding the day I started film school, as well as the day I started working at the local newspaper.
Of course, they're not all happy dates.
I can remember the day that my father died, because the day that I'm writing this - Monday, August 26, 2024 - marks 11 years to the day since he passed away. The fact that more than a decade has passed since I last spoke with my father both does and doesn't surprise me.
It surprises me because of the sheer length of time that has passed since then. Eleven years is a long time, but I can still remember such intricate details about my last visit with him down in the long-term health care facility in Dinsmore. That would've been Saturday, August 24; a sunny afternoon in which I intended to spend the day with him watching the Rider game on TV and talking about anything and everything.
I had just taken a trip to Las Vegas, and we talked about that. There were plans for a 25th anniversary event for my sister and her husband out at Pike Lake, and we talked about that. How things were at work, how things were at home, how things were with him, how he was feeling; anything and everything was on the table.
The Riders went on to win that game against Edmonton, and afterward, I wheeled Dad into the facility dining room for supper. He stuck out his big, meaty paw and I shook it, telling him to enjoy his meal and that I'd see him again on Monday after I was done work. He said okay and I departed.
That was the last time I spoke with my father and saw him alive. I did see him again that Monday, but of course, it was under the saddest and most heartbreaking of circumstances.
My dad wasn't a complicated man. Jack Ruttle was a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy who had to grow up very quickly - perhaps far too quickly - when he was growing up in Kincardine, Ontario in the 30's and 40's. When other teenagers were out enjoying life without a worry in their heads, my dad was working to ensure that a hot meal would be in front of both him and his family at the end of the day. Looking back on it, I can honestly say that life wasn't fair to my dad in a lot of ways, especially when he was a young man.
But he didn't complain.
No, ole J.R. wasn't a whiner or a 'woe is me' type. When he saw that things needed to be done, he just did them and moved on to what was next. I think such traits are missing in a lot of today's generations; that 'strong silent type', as many would call it.
Whatever anyone else wanted to call him, I just called him Dad.
With as much time having passed since he died, I've stopped and reflected from time to time on just who my dad was as both a father and a person. If I'm being 100% honest here, and that's all I know how to be, I do sometimes wish that my dad was more open, more talkative, and not afraid to show emotion. A lot of people would describe such characteristics as making up a 'man's man' who's all about action rather than talking about one's feelings. And hey, I get that.
But at the end of the day, he was my father, and I wish that sometimes, just sometimes, he would've been unafraid to show emotion and get brutally honest with whatever he was feeling.
I truly feel that the relationships he had with his kids would've benefitted greatly from such actions.
However, I'm happy to say that I can remember two occasions where my dad's emotions got the better of him and he was more open.
It was New Year's Day in 2006. My parents were driving me to the Saskatoon airport so that I could catch a flight back to Victoria, BC after the Christmas break. I remember the three of us were sitting down and waiting for the boarding call and we were talking about what was next after I graduated that coming spring. It wasn't long before the announcement was made that the plane was boarding, and I tearfully hugged my mom. I turned, and there was Dad with his hand stuck out. I shook it and then pulled him close in a hug. That was all it took. Dad immediately gave in and squeezed me for all I was worth, and I could see that he too had tears in his eyes. You see, that was the thing about my dad. You sometimes had to make that first move with him before he could see that it was OK to cry and show those emotions. Boy, did he ever show them that day. I can still remember that bear hug more than 18 years later.
The other time was in June of 2011, when my mom was turning 60 years old. I'm not sure how to describe that evening; it was just one of those times where everything was clicking and everyone was in a great mood. I stopped at a cafe on my way out of town after work and grabbed some takeout supper for everyone back at home, and just before we all sat down to our meals, Dad noticed that I had my camera in my hands. With that, he pulled his wife close to him and told me to shoot away. I fired off a few shots of the two of them, and I'm not lying to you when I say that it's my favorite photo of my parents. There's Mom, happily standing next to her man on the evening of her birthday in front of a bouquet of flowers, and there's Dad, seated in his routine spot, arm around his bride of nearly 30 years, and smiling big and wide. That was a really great night.
I realized a few years ago that my dad died with both a heavy heart and a lot of things on his mind; things that I wish he could've felt comfortable in sharing with me, my mom, and my siblings.
Today, I'm working on being more open myself, instead of bottling things in. That isn't good for anyone.
Regardless of his emotional shortcomings, I loved my dad and I'll never forget him. In too many ways, he was just that - unforgettable.
For this week, that's been the Ruttle Report.
