COLUMN: Don’t Mind the Mess – What dads leave behind

Father’s Day always sneaks up on me.

Maybe it’s because dads rarely demand attention. They’re more likely to show love through fixing things than talking about feelings. They’re the ones who’ll change your flat tire at midnight or drive across town to deliver a forgotten wallet—but won’t remember their own birthday.

My dad was one of those quiet, capable types. A man of the land, with dirt under his fingernails and the weight of the weather on his shoulders. He never had much use for fuss, sentiment, or—most certainly—not yellow flowers.

Mustard weeds, to be precise.

To a farmer like my dad, a single yellow bloom in a field of sugar beets wasn’t just a plant—it was an insult. A sign that after all that spraying, hoeing, and pacing at the edge of the field in his Sunday best, nature had still managed to get one over on him. He could grow a crop so big it made the neighbours whisper, but if there was one defiant mustard flower poking up its head, that’s what he’d see. That’s what would gnaw at him.

Looking back, I realize now that he approached fatherhood the same way he approached farming. He didn’t aim for praise or perfection—he aimed for results. Stability. Provision. Keeping things running even when the forecast was grim and the soil refused to cooperate.

He wasn’t big on hugs. But he made sure our gas tanks were always full. He taught us how to drive long before we could legally reach the pedals. He fixed what was broken and only cussed a little while doing it.

I think a lot of fathers are like that—often uncelebrated, frequently misunderstood, but always showing up. They’re the ones quietly holding up the whole operation behind the scenes. And Father’s Day, if nothing else, should be a day to notice them. To remember what they carried without complaint. What they sacrificed without ever calling it a sacrifice.

Now that my dad is gone, I find myself reaching for those memories like heirlooms. I remember his deep farmer’s tan, and the perpetual stub of an Export A cigarette clamped between his lips. His earnest conversations about God, and his personal views on humanity, as we drove gravel roads, scanning the crops.

I visit him now in a quieter field—the kind that doesn’t rely on spraying or crop reports. And sometimes, just to mess with him, a yellow flower will show up.

I chuckle when I see them. Like a wink from the universe. My dad may not have appreciated that flower in life, but I took it as a reminder: things don’t have to be perfect to be beautiful. Even a mustard weed has its place in the story.

So, this Father’s Day, here’s to the dads who never asked for thanks. The ones who taught us more by example than by lecture. The ones who couldn’t sit still on a Sunday if the forecast called for Monday rain. The ones who hated yellow flowers—but loved us, deeply and without question.

And maybe—just maybe—I’ll bring a yellow rose to the cemetery this year, just to make him smile.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.