Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head [part III - fin]

Continued from part II

My father taught me everything I know about the birds and the bees — and the flowers and the trees, too.

In response to what I had just told him, my father said, "Vaaaat?"

I can't do justice, in writing, to the way my dad speaks that word. It's a drawn out, sing-songy syllable; his voice goes up a notch at the end. It's a good sound, though, I can tell you that much for certain. I learned very early to identify my father's moods from his whistling, and his tone. He's not so good with words. I got that from my mother. From him, I got my nose, and my knowledge of plants and birds.

Did you know that, if you want to attract bumblebees to your garden — and who wouldn't? — you want to stay away from fancy modern hybrid flowers. They might look pretty, but they're sterile. If you aspire to the kind of flower garden my father has, populated by wildly coloured wild flowers that bloom continuously from April through October, you need bumblebees. You also want to stay away from double-bloom flowers. They make it too difficult for the bees to get at the pollen and nectar.

Poor bumblebees. They have a bad rap. Though they look big and fierce, they rarely sting people. They're not aggressive, and are perfectly happy pollinating all day. If you watch one closely, as my father and I are about to do, it might even wave its legs at you.

An especially plump bumblebee was buzzing around my father's early-flowering honeysuckle bush.

"Vatch, Vatch," my father instructed me, and motioned me closer to the flowers.

"What am I looking at?" I meant, specifically. I've seen bees doing their flower business before.

"Look at where he puts his stinger."

I vatched.

"See, how he goes outside the petals, to the base of the corolla, then sticks it in from the outside? Smaller bees, honeybees, climb inside the flower. This guy, he's taking a shortcut. Smart, ah?"

"And efficient."

"Ja."

My father admires efficiency in all things.

I showed my dad a picture of Jack. The one from Sara's wedding. And he made a non-English, monosyllabic sound, one of many that only my mother and I would have been able to translate. The sound expressed, in Daddy-speak, a favourable reaction.

"He's a really good dancer," I said. "And I told him I wanted to go dancing for my birthday, and he said he would come here — oh, by the way, he lives in San Francisco..."

I've been told I babble when I'm nervous.

" — so anyway, he's going to be here the weekend of my birthday, and I tried to find a place in Toronto where we could go ballroom dancing, but there just aren't any, not even at the Royal York, can you believe it? — and, so, anyway well he said why don't you ask your father, he'll know where to go, and so, that's what I need you to do, find a place where we can go dancing on that weekend."

What was that I just said about not being good with words? Sheesh.

My dad was doing this thing he does, where he's smiling but he's trying not to, because he doesn't want me to think he's smiling, even though he is, so he's trying to look stern and serious, but he only half pulls it off and doesn't fool me one bit.

"Zo, you mean he can dance? To die alten Schlager? Not that new music the kids these days are listening to?"

My father is a fantastic dancer. He taught me how to dance about the same time he taught me to skate, which is to say, not long after I was able to walk.

"He's not as good as you, of course," I replied.

At that moment, I probably could have gotten $200,000 for my mortgage out of my father.

A raindrop made my father blink. He looked up to evaluate the sky, and so it was difficult for me to make out the subsequent monosyllable. I think it was another favourable one, though.

"I guess I'd better get those tomato plants home," I said.

"Remember, water them every day for the first few days, and keep them protected from the direct sun if you can."

"Yes, Daddy," I replied, as I climbed into my car.

In my family, we're the Bad Leavers. You know, like the Seinfeld character, the Close Talker? My dad closed the car door and waited for me to roll down the window, so he could tell me once more about the tomato plants.

Then it started to rain.


It's eight weeks until Sass's birthday, and in the interim she'll be going to England. Jack is in Australia again, trying to close a big deal before quarter-end, but you'll hear more about him soon. Just before her birthday Sass goes to Los Angeles for a job interview, but makes it home in time to meet Jack at the Royal York. A lot can — and does — happen in eight weeks.