Dad.

Joe Derozier wrote this —-

“Joe”, my wife will ask, “why, every single time you order breakfast, do you make a sandwich out of your eggs?”

For what has been an undetermined number of years, whenever I go out for breakfast, I order 3 over-easy eggs and toast, to go along with the rest of my meal.

When the food arrives, I’ll free the yolk from my eggs and carefully place the egg carcasses to the side of my plate.

Sopping up the freed yolk with the rest of my meal, I’ll scarf down my hashbrowns, bacon, and sausage.

I’ll then, with great care, apply extra butter to the toast, and strategically place the 3 egg casualties between the now cholesterol laden bread, carefully covering every square inch so that each and every bite will have both egg, and toast.

No matter how full I am from inhaling the other 7000 calories, and 40000 grams of artery hardening cholesterol from the rest of my meal, I will finish every last bite.

I don’t like to be disturbed through this part of my breakfast.

I don’t want more coffee.

I don’t want to talk about the weather.

I won’t wave to someone leaving, nor will I answer any questions.

Instead, I get lost in heavy nostalgia.

My heart is heavy (maybe from my heart trying to pump that 40000 grams of cholesterol from the bacon and sausage through my veins), and I get this overwhelming feeling of…something.

This “something” is happy and sad, and I long to embrace every second of it without distraction.

I never understood why I started doing this, and so I couldn’t tell my wife when or why it started…

…until a couple months ago.

A wonderful friend of mine, Lisa Pierre-Mraz, read one of my stories about my dad, and messaged me about it.

She said she loved when her dad, Francis Pierre, would have my dad and some of her dad’s other friends over to their house to play cards.

These men had all been friends, before, but they developed a stronger bond while they were on strike together at the Algoma Hardwoods.

Up until the strike, Dad left very early for work. We’d see him briefly as he said his good mornings/good byes, and with his metal lunchbox in tow, closed the door and walked to work.

We fended for ourselves for breakfast most mornings, usually skipping it all together, or just having some cold cereal.

When Dad went on strike, he didn’t have to walk the picket line until later in the morning, so he was able to spend the morning with us.

All of a sudden, we were waking up each morning to the heavenly smell of eggs cooking for breakfast.

Over-easy, over-hard, sunny side up, scrambled, and sometimes he’d ever throw in some government cheese, and make omelets.

It was amazing to wake up to, and to this day I still firmly believe this, the best breakfasts I’ve ever had.

I didn’t even know Dad could cook!

After finishing his job as a short order cook to his three young children, Dad would make his favorite egg dish, and eat with us at the table.

He would ask what we’d be doing that day and tease us mercilessly, like only Dad could.

We were too young to fully understand the strike and its financial ramifications, so other than hearing mom and dad talk about different job opportunities, the strike was never discussed.

Instead, Dad wore a huge smile and kept things fun for us, not wanting us to worry about anything.

When we were finished, Kerin or I, (never Dave…that may be a different story) would help Dad with the dishes.

He even made THAT fun by spraying us with water or making funny noises with the water between his fingers.

After leaving the house, he would walk to work and man the picket line.

When his time was through, he was given a ride to Mr. Pierre’s home.

There, the striking men would play cards, talk, laugh, and discuss their futures.

This was how men solved their problems back then.

Their therapists were their friends, and situations were resolved with humor, and, above all, camaraderie.

When Lisa reminded me of those card playing friends, it brought back all of those warm, loving feelings of breakfasts with Dad…

Dad’s favorite breakfast?

…an over-easy egg sandwich, with extra butter.

I realized that I started making those sandwiches around the time Dad passed away…

And that heavy, nostalgic, overwhelmingly happy and sad feeling, that I don’t want to be distracted from, and long to embrace every second of?

…that feeling is Dad.