Thank heavens for Wifi.  The moment Dad stepped in the door, his fancy new laptop – the first computer he has ever had all to himself — found the connection and started right up.  Before he had even set sights on his tiny new quarters – his alone for the next eight months – he had gotten his first email.  It was from me, and it said:

“Hey.  Aren’t you supposed to be moving out East, or something?”

I thought I was being funny.  Turns out I was being slow.  In a fit of independence, Dad had arranged to arrive in Ottawa – where I, his middle child, have lived for the last 10 years — a full day ahead of schedule.  Maybe so that I wouldn’t make a fuss.  Which, naturally, I would have.

The email must have been reassuring.  Arriving in humid Ottawa on one of the hottest day of the summer, Dad had had to haul two massive suitcases several blocks to his new residence building.  Sorting through the usual check-in procedures and finding his way – all alone – up to his room, I can’t help but wonder if, for a moment, he wished he hadn’t come.

Technically, Dad is retired.  After celebrating the end of a long and dedicated career last October, he’d spent the long Winnipeg winter soul-searching.  In early spring, he’d made up his mind; he wanted back into the workforce.  And this time, he would move out of province to earn his stripes. 

Seems only yesterday Dad was plugging away at the longest stretch of his career, briefcase practically overflowing with the remains of institutional battles won and lost.  I hardly even noticed the time pass.  We were proud the day he retired, and though we didn’t yet know what he had in mind to do, we just assumed it’d be great.  A fitting end to a considerable life-long effort. 

When he told me, several months ago, what he was considering, I worried a little if he was up to it.  Sure, he’s talented – what child would say their parent wasn’t?  But this opportunity would take him away from his friend and family – from the little garden he grows vegetables in, and the house he has spent 20 years trying to finish.  Was he ready for the pressure, the demands of living away from home?

But you know how parents are.  Once they’ve decided to do something, the best thing to do is let them find their way.  A sentiment that did not prevent me from laying into him the moment I saw him.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming in?” I demanded.  “I could have helped you into your residence, shown you where to buy supplies!”

“They didn’t even have toilet paper,” he intoned, the reality of his new living accommodations showing plain on his face.  Sure, there was a flat-screen TV and laundry; but there was no Wife, now, to pick up the essentials in one of two family cars at his full disposal. 

I shrugged, and rattled off the list of considerations I’d already mentally addressed.  There was a Tim’s nearby for coffee, and a Zellers, too, where he could get essentials.  The grocery store was a good six blocks away, but they sold little grocery trolleys, and he shouldn’t be at all embarrassed to use one; they’re all the rage in Centretown. 

Dad, eager to show he’d come prepared, had his own list.  Was there a dollar store nearby to stock up the kitchen?  What was the dial number for CBC radio?  Did the LCBO charge more for beer than the Beer store?  What day does the garbage go out? 

It’s obvious he’s excited.  On his second day, he set out to find a walking circuit we’d mapped out for him, about the same length as the one he does in our family suburb in Winnipeg.  The route happens to take in four sides of the Parliament buildings – a far cry from the usual scenery – and his enthusiastic reportage came by email that very night:  Four exclamation points from a man who seldom uses punctuation. 

He’s quick to remind me of his considerable advantages, too.  “I have a Costco card, you know,” he said, unprompted.  While we tried being members once ourselves, the novelty didn’t stick to us, inexcusable urbanites with a penchant for foodie over frugal.  Dad’s been a faithful member for years, and his membership grants us temporary access for tedious essentials like cat litter and dish soap.  He offered to split the cost of the rental car.  We waved his offer away, bemused. 

As to the work, it’s still early days.  Dad intends to ease in slowly, taking long weekends when he can.  I approve.

I find myself preoccupied with ridiculous concerns I don’t let myself express.  I hope that his new colleagues are nice to him.  I hope he’s eating properly, and that he knows he can call me when he needs me.  And while he complains his residence is too quiet, no doubt gripped by summertime absenteeism, I secretly hope it remains so.  He doesn’t need negative influences of out-of-town MPs he envisions might be sharing close quarters when the Parliamentary session resumes in September, and the residence fills up.   

It’s up to Dad to decide what becomes of his time here.  It won’t take long for him to orient himself, and by then, my usefulness will be reduced to companionship, and perhaps a more personal knowledge of the coming winter. 

And while I know I can’t protect him from the consequences of Ottawa in the throws of a political dead heat he must now deftly enter, I will remind myself regularly that I am closer to him now than I have been in a very long time, ready to fend off bitter winds from the Rideau River, and all manner of unfriendly breezes, here in his nation’s capital. 

And that his new computer has WiFi.