 |
| My father with me on the back of the tractor. I was about five. |
I think my father set me up to be the tomboy I have always been. Certainly, there was probably a leaning not to be very girly--I didn't really know what to do with dolls, but loved putting GI Joe on my Breyer horse models. But, my father was born to mentor and share his knowledge, and he simply couldn't keep it to himself. Luckily, it was usually fun to learn something he wanted to teach me or show me. But, sometimes, I was a reluctant participant, and his will won over mine (no small feat!).
When I was one year old, we moved to a home my father had designed and built for his little family--my mom, my sister (not yet born, of course), and me, and himself. The unusual redwood and adobe brick home my father built sat upon 7 acres at the foot of the Santa Cruz mountains, in a little town called Portola Valley. It was its own town, but it is literally spitting distance to Stanford University and the unincorporated lands that Stanford University still owns and has not yet developed.
My father, an engineer by education and profession, and an inventor by nature, began taming the seven acres immediately. He eventually decided he could use a small tractor to move brush and to bulldoze small pathways or "roads" around the hillside acres. Often, my Saturday morning job was to pick up brush he'd cut and drag it to a burn pile or to the box he'd built behind the seat of the tractor for just that purpose. He'd even built in two toddler-sized seats for us to sit on so my little sister and I could ride along with him.
My father had me "driving" the little tractor at a young age. Of course I couldn't reach the pedals, so I was limited to steering and handling the controls that I could reach. Eventually, I was old enough to drive it alone--perhaps by age 8, I was always the littlest girl in every class. My dad recognized the enjoyment we got in playing outdoors on the property we lived on. He found some smallish oak trees and built two amazing and accessible tree houses, with my help of course. My dad felt that I should have an engagement and an ownership of the projects he undertook for our benefit, and I generally agreed. He required that I learn to use the tools in his workshop; drills, drill presses, his band saw, and, with supervision, the circular table saw.
Thinking back, I realize this was his idea of an education in life. He had two girls, and was finding his way as to how to raise girls. He'd had a very staunch (mostly) British upbringing, and had never seen his parents "parenting" close up after his ninth birthday. It's taken most of my life to really understand things, but I've come to realize I was incredibly fortunate to have a father who was so sensitive and gentle when he'd had to grow up craving those very things himself.
My mum was, as many people even in my life now know her to be, quite girly and with "wifely skills" such as sewing and art and writing. While she was my father's first mate for sailing and other adventures, I became his co-pilot, the navigator on our expeditions be they sailing or driving, and my dad taught me to read the tide tables and study the marine charts to avoid running aground or for the purposes of finding harbor entrances in the dark. When we drove out of town, which was often enough, my father would hand me the maps and explain where he wanted me to lead us, and how and why we should choose certain routes. I would navigate. In this way, he imparted a very solid ability to find my way around most anywhere, and a great sense of direction.
When we traveled abroad, my dad challenged me to determine (based on some criteria from him) the train routes across the English countryside, and the transfer to the London tube and the stations and changes to make to get to and from our destinations. In France, he did the same, asking me to help him route us (he already had a plan) from the middle of France to the southern coast, and back, as we enjoyed our travels. I was ten, and I loved these excercises. At dinner, he coached me to make my order in French, and at the hotel, he urged me to run ahead and ask for the key from the front desk in French.
We moved from Portola Valley to Palo Alto when I entered ninth grade, and living in an actual city, with actual level ground, I was finally able to ride my bike everywhere with ease. I was given a 10-speed bike; an upgrade from the 3-speed, European folding bike that I'd been riding in Portola Valley. But, having a 10-speed imparted the responsibility to know how to do the repairs, so my father bought me a bike tool kit, and gave me a spot in the garage and showed me how to fix a flat, change a tube, the brake pads, etc. Later, I would teach my sister to work on her bike.
You can guess that the same held true when I began driving. I learned to change and check the oil, change a tire, jump the battery; all the things a car owner should really know anyway, but many often don't. About eighteen years later, I would also hold a workshop for our Society of Women Engineers members at UC Davis to help teach the female engineers how to do these things. I used my own Jeep as the demo car since it was easy to crawl around underneath it. Clearly, having dirt under my fingernails and wind in my face has been a lifelong theme. My outdoors is as important to me as my indoors, wherever I live.
I reflect on the many, many skills and lessons that really came first from my father, and I feel so thankful he is who he is, and that I am still blessed to be able to tell him how much he has influenced my life in many positive and meaningful ways. I occasionally think, "I should try wearing more dresses" or something along those lines, and if I do, it doesn't last. I am destined to be that tomboy, and my father only honed in on what was already there. I love that he understood this about me even when I was so young.
 |
| A photo I adore, of my father and my sister Joanna, taken about 1982, on one of our boats, "Experiphilia" -- it was a glorious day and we sailed to Angel Island for a hike, I remember. |
Comments