Conversations with My Dad: Love, Politics, and Vacuum-Sealed Moose Meat

It always starts the same. I’ll be half-listening, half-scrolling, and he’ll say something like, “So, you seeing anyone lately?” And just like that, we’re off—diving into everything from my questionable taste in men to his very strong opinions on why no federal leader should use words like "woke". Somehow, every conversation ends with me laughing, slightly offended, and learning something new about life, politics, or moose meat.

My dad is the kind of man who can gut a moose, build a shed with leftover scraps, navigate a political debate like he’s on Power & Politics, and still make time to ask, “So… you seeing anyone?” with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to drywall.

"No, dad. But thanks for asking."

"Just making conversation."

I’ve always loved our talks—even when they take those weird left turns only he can navigate. I’ll be venting about work or some dating disaster, and before I know it, he’s off explaining how to vacuum seal moose meat so it doesn’t get freezer burn like your love life, Shauna.

Classic Dad. Brutal, but not wrong. And somehow, still exactly what I needed.

“You’re too nice,” he said to me during our last chat, cracking open a Heineken like he was about to solve my entire existence. “You seem to attract these guys who wanna cash in on your emotional labour like it’s a loyalty program—meanwhile, they couldn’t fix a flat if it came with instructions and Jesus himself holding the goddam jack.”

Fair.

“Men are like Canadian Tire sales,” he once said while sharpening his skinning knife. “Lots of flash, half of them are broken, and the good ones are backordered.”

That gem was dropped years ago, after I told him about a date I had with a guy who called himself a hunter but didn’t believe in deodorant or paying for dinner. He offered me "emotional holding space" instead of dessert. My dad stared at me like I just told him I joined a cult.

“A man worth keeping has a clean truck, knows how to listen, and won’t make you feel like you gotta shrink to fit beside him,” he said, slicing through sinew like it was a metaphor. “Also, if he doesn’t help you unload your groceries, he’s a punk.”

Then we moved on to politics. As one does.

My dad doesn’t yell about politics. He grumbles—the kind of low, seismic rumble that makes you brace yourself for the truth bomb. We once sat in a Canadian Tire parking lot for 45 minutes while he laid out his political thesis between bites of a maple donut.

“You ever notice the fancier their suit, the more they lie?” he muttered. “If your campaign slogan says something like "Canada first or America first" in it, you're probably hiding something. A con man doesn't have to be smart if his victims are stupid enough. That president Trump is living proof of that.”

I said something about hope and he looked at me like I had a third eye.“Hope’s fine,” he said. “But hope without action is like bringing a canoe without a paddle. You’re gonna drift and call it destiny.” He sipped his double-double like it was aged whiskey. “You want change? Vote. Teach your son. Don’t trust a politician who can’t chop wood or apologize properly.”

I tried to steer the conversation somewhere lighter. Like meat.

In our family, vacuum-sealing meat isn’t just a life skill—it’s a spiritual discipline. I once asked him why he cared so much about it and he deadpanned, “You treat meat like relationships. Don’t let air get in. It’ll spoil it.”

I blinked. “Are we still talking about meat?”

He didn’t blink. “Are we ever?”

And there's the inevitable car maintenance pep talk, which he treats with the reverence of a priest doing confession. One summer, I had barely mentioned a weird sound in my Chevy before he pulled out his tools, popped the hood, and launched into a full sermon.

“Your car’s like your mental health,” he said, tightening my oil cap like it owed him money. “Ignore it too long and you’ll be stranded somewhere crying and calling me from the side of the highway.”

To be fair, that’s literally happened.

He’s taught me how to change a tire, check all my fluids, boost a battery, and listen for the death rattle of bad brakes. He doesn’t believe in driving around on fumes or settling for someone who needs to Google what a manifold is.

“And stop letting your gas tank get below a quarter,” he said, dead serious. “What are you training for? The apocalypse?”

“And when are you going to meet someone worth your time?”

“Dad!”

“What? I said what I said.”

He doesn’t do heart-to-hearts in the traditional sense. He does drive-by wisdom drops. Mid-oil change. Mid-pancake flip. Mid-grumble. The love shows up in the practical stuff—checking my tire pressure before winter, saving the best cuts of moose meat for me, and reminding me that windshield washer fluid is not optional, Shauna. I don’t care if you're late. Pull over and fill it.

He shows up the way he always has—quiet, consistent, and sharp as a skinning knife. Doesn’t lecture. Doesn’t hover. But the man will absolutely show up to fix your car, drop a metaphor about moose meat, and roast your last three exes without even raising his voice.

Sometimes I forget how rare that is. How lucky I am to have a dad who reminds me, in both words and actions, that I deserve to be safe, respected, and well-fed. That if someone doesn’t make you feel seen and teach you how to gut a fish, they might not be worth your good years.

So, if you ever need a crash course in love, politics, car maintenance, and meat prep? I’ll lend you my dad for the afternoon.

Just don’t touch his coffee. He doesn’t share it. And God help you if you bring him a latte.

~smy