I've given my fathers history,and how I viewed it in considerably more detail than I had intended to when I started out.Really,I just wanted to give a straight forward tribute to my father on Fathers day.However,I find that there was really nothing all that straight forward about my father.I don't think I've nearly approached all of this subject and much more is likely to follow as I begin to write memoir,some of which will be shared in this blog
But I had several things to say before leaving this subject behind.Firstly,was my father a good or a bad man?I really don't have the whole answer to that and it is fitting, I think that children should not,necessarily be all knowing in this regard.Simply put we need our fathers,and we need them to be persons who can be looked up to,quite apart from whether or not they are actually worthy of our reverence.The fact is that God commands us to look up to,to respect our parents.To do otherwise is,in fact an affront to God,who portrays his own relationship to us as being paternal in nature.I don't mean though that that relationship is SIMPLY paternal or that it can in any way be reduced to the status of a human paternal relationship.It is much greater than that.And that brings me to another point.God is all those things that our earthly fathers are not.So,before we sit in judgement,we would do well to remember that our earthly fathers are not all powerful,or infallible or all knowing.The world is a difficult place,full of difficult problems that demand decisions that are not easy to make or be accountable for.Being a man is not easy.Criticism is the lot of any adult regardless of what decision is made.And we do not know or see this when we are children.Therefor,our fathers are worthy of being judged with compassion.
As to my own father,what would I say?I never thought I could do enough to satisfy him.I always thought that no matter what I did,or who I was something more would be demanded.But that is not always a bad thing.There were times we didn't seem to agree on anything,especially after I became an adult and I asked myself"why does this man hate me so much?"In fact I don't think he hated me at all.People can and do change there basic beliefs over time,and if they do,is that not a sign of open mindedness?In my life I've chosen to emulate my father in some things and not in others.I don't enjoy the use of alcohol,for instance and that is a direct product of my upbringing,though not in the way that one might think.I believe,by the way that it bothered my father that I would never sit and have a drink with him.
But here is what I think of my father.He was an imperfect man in an imperfect world,trying to do his best.And he didn't do badly.He kept our home together and he provided for us.He was never in jail,or falling down outside the tavern.I never knew him to be unfaithful to our mother.At times he could seem downright unreasonable,but mostly he made a solid effort to get along with people and to be a decent man,a good neighbor and a good father.Moreover,many of his failings,especially in later years seemed to me to come about as a direct result of poor health.There is,to my thinking,no reason why his children,down through the centuries to come,should not think well of him.
There is one more thing that needs to be said.It's something I've often noticed regarding fatherhood,but I don't know as I've ever written this down before.As I noted above,there is a difference between our fathers here on earth and Our Heavenly Father.I'm not just stating the obvious here,people have told me this.A great many people seem to confuse the two,especially those who have had less than ideal fathers.It is understandable perhaps,but we need to remember,Our Heavenly Father is nothing like our fathers here.He is perfect and not only loves us,but knows how to love us perfectly.Many people though seem ,to my eyes to be unable or unwilling to put their trust in a heavenly father as the result of a less than perfect relationship with their earthly father.This is tragic because,taken to it's final end ,it will result in a child that is lost for all eternity.It points to the huge responsibility of being a father,but also to our need to be kind and forgiving with fathers who are not always as they should be.
Monday 18 June 2012
Saturday 16 June 2012
Fathers Day Part VI
Walter Bruce Davis was born in 1934 and lived until 2009,when he passed from this world on February 15,just two days short of three years from the accident that took away his wife and lifelong companion.
I have no idea what those three years were like for my father.I hope he was cared for in a dignified and decent way but,in my more cynical moments I greatly fear that he may not have been.He was in the care of my youngest sister,who thus far has refused to disclose details of the care she says she provided.I only say that it was wrong not to allow oversight.In and of itself,that was wrong and my father deserved better.As to any other wrong doing,I will not give voice to my fears,as I don't know what those years were like.I only know that,for certain that God sees and knows.
On the day my sister called to tell me of my fathers passing,I was sitting in a chair and trying to learn a chord progression for a new song on the guitar.It was I though an extraordinarily beautiful song about a metaphorical bird.And it spoke to my fathers life.The odd thing was that I was having no luck finding the proper chord progression until after my sister had called.When I was through talking to her,in a short while,I picked up my guitar again,and the chords came to me,all of them,in less than ten minutes.That was on Family Day,2009.
My father was laid to rest in the cemetery in Canterbury,New Brunswick,beside my mother and there they,and perhaps a cat,sleep together.At the funeral they sang "Church In The Wildwood" and "Peace In The Valley."And I hope he has found his peace and that he sleeps well.
Father Day Part V
There were only two times that I can recall seeing my father drinking hard liquor.The first was in June of 1978,before I started twelfth grade.He was very drunk then,and he told me a story.However,I do not have a great deal to say about that just now.The second time was about a year later,and I'm slightly less informed as to what might have caused this.It was a hard time I believe,with myself just leaving the home,a sister a year younger,and my younger sister nearly ten years younger than me.My father was a long way from finished when it came to parenting.There was a lot of talk of layoffs and closing government facilities,including the one where my father worked.My father I'm sure was a homebody who did not want to be uprooted in the final years of his working career.His own father had just passed a year or so before and his mother was in declining health.Moving must have seemed an unbearable burden to him.He always wanted to be close to Springhill and close to my mothers family as well,and would likely have viewed any inability to stay in Moncton as a sort of failure.And as much as he supported my move-it was the thing to do in those days-I'm not sure he understood it fully.I think he expected it to perhaps be temporary.1979 must have been a very stressful time for my father.
When the strokes began I'm not certain.I'm inclined to think it may have been as far back as the mid 1970's.Once my father showed us that while his right hand was flowing with blood and warm,his left hand was ice cold and white.I don't recall that anything ever came of that,but at the time it seemed spooky.It seemed much spookier recalling it later.
Certainly by the time my parents visited Alberta in 1981,my father was not nearly as hardy as he was when I'd last seen him.We met in Edmonton and planned to drive down to Mt.St.Helens in Washington state.It was a wonderful vacation,the last together as a family,though not all of us were there.My father seemed sickly though and couldn't or didn't want to drive the car.So my mother and I drove along highway 90,where it was 107 degrees in Moses Lake,and my father was curled up in the back seat of the car.Visions of the crossing into California from the "Grapes Of Wrath"came to my mind,and I think that it was then I realized that my father was truly not well.He sipped on a lot of beer during the trip,to the point where he was quite jolly and not just a little bit silly.We were unable to get to Mt.St.Helen's because it was still closed,but we spent the most of a whole day at Mount.Ranier,and my father seemed pleased to point out the size of the trees in the park.He was I think reliving his visit to British Columbia,which he was quite taken with.
The silliness of beer overtook him on the ferry from Port Angeles to Victoria and he met this girl who was crossing on a bicycle to make a trip around Vancouver Island.He introduced me to her,tried to set me up in fact,but I was not really interested.Once off the boat we set up camp and sat around our campfire until early morning.My father asked me,very pointedly if I did not find the girl on the boat attractive,to which I explained that I was not interested.At that point,he,again drinking beer,asked if I were a homosexual.He need not have worried.I had more than one lady friend in my life at that point,though I'm not certain any of them were a serious interested.I explained that I did not want to be married,but my father said that was nonsense,he expected me to find a suitable wife.Unknown to either of us,that would be accomplished in less than a year.For a long time I was offended about being asked if I was a homosexual,but with time I came to realize my father asked it out of worry and concern.
We visited my fathers cousin in Port Alberni and it was a good thing as she was to pass away a short time later.We had a picnic by a wonderful waterfall and when we left for Vancouver my father seemed reinvigorated and happy.The trip seemed to end much better than it began.
It was to be nearly two years until I was to see my family again and by that time I had a wife and a son on the way.My father had seemed to lose ground again,though he was still working ans it must have been some time before he had his stroke.Still he did not seem at all well.He took to Susan well and accepted her as a daughter and was truly happy to know that a grandchild was on the way.In all ways that I can recall it was a happy visit and Matthew was born in October of 1983.
As far as being a grandfather was concerned,my father took an active role,though his health was declining.We saw my parents nearly every year through the 1980's and every year my father seemed worse off.In 1987,in Ottawa,the weekend of the tornado in Edmonton,he seemed convinced his time was not long,and talked to me about his will.I didn't perceive it as an especially urgent matter and this seemed to annoy my father as he tried to tell me what he wanted done at his passing.By this time he was not doing any of the driving,my mother was taking a greater and greater role in running the household,and in my fathers care too.He had had at least two strokes by this time.A year later,we met in Ottawa again and drove back to Moncton.It was a hot summer and the trip seemed to drain my father to the point where he was tired and sick for the remainder of our visit.
My youngest sister moved west and in 1990 was ready to give birth to my fathers second grandchild.My parents came to visit and stayed at my place in Edmonton.Zachary was born on September 11 and they all went back to New Brunswick by car shortly after.My father looked frail and as weak and tired as I had ever seen him.
A year later,Susan and I separated and later divorced,and I believe my father had a hard time with the idea of divorce.Still he supported me in going back to school,even financially for a while.He seemed proud when I graduated,though whenever he called he must have been under the influence of powerful medication,for he became harder and harder to understand.Tracking a phone conversation with him was very difficult by 1995.What was transpiring was a continued series of strokes that was to last for the remainder of his life.
By 2000,I'd moved to Calgary,and it must have been a year or two later that my mother and father set out by train to visit me.I was looking forward to the visit,and called on the night they were to have arrived only to find that they had cancelled their reservation.It turned out that my father had had some sort of an attack on the train in Toronto,and they'd turned back.After that he became quite sick,so that he'd not even talk on the phone.I was not to see him again until 2006,after the car wreck that took my mothers life,and left my father severely injured and without his wife and caregiver.So unnecessary,I thought,and still do.He seemed so small and frail and I knew that this was a thing he would never really come back from.I could not be certain what it was he knew then.He had a hard time tracking conversations and didn't seem to grasp,at least not all the time,that my mother was gone.I heard him from time to time call out her name.At other times I didn't think he recognized me,at least for a few short moments.It was such a tragedy and I thought,no matter how good or bad he had been,he deserved better than where his life had left him.He had deserved something more merciful.
When the strokes began I'm not certain.I'm inclined to think it may have been as far back as the mid 1970's.Once my father showed us that while his right hand was flowing with blood and warm,his left hand was ice cold and white.I don't recall that anything ever came of that,but at the time it seemed spooky.It seemed much spookier recalling it later.
Certainly by the time my parents visited Alberta in 1981,my father was not nearly as hardy as he was when I'd last seen him.We met in Edmonton and planned to drive down to Mt.St.Helens in Washington state.It was a wonderful vacation,the last together as a family,though not all of us were there.My father seemed sickly though and couldn't or didn't want to drive the car.So my mother and I drove along highway 90,where it was 107 degrees in Moses Lake,and my father was curled up in the back seat of the car.Visions of the crossing into California from the "Grapes Of Wrath"came to my mind,and I think that it was then I realized that my father was truly not well.He sipped on a lot of beer during the trip,to the point where he was quite jolly and not just a little bit silly.We were unable to get to Mt.St.Helen's because it was still closed,but we spent the most of a whole day at Mount.Ranier,and my father seemed pleased to point out the size of the trees in the park.He was I think reliving his visit to British Columbia,which he was quite taken with.
The silliness of beer overtook him on the ferry from Port Angeles to Victoria and he met this girl who was crossing on a bicycle to make a trip around Vancouver Island.He introduced me to her,tried to set me up in fact,but I was not really interested.Once off the boat we set up camp and sat around our campfire until early morning.My father asked me,very pointedly if I did not find the girl on the boat attractive,to which I explained that I was not interested.At that point,he,again drinking beer,asked if I were a homosexual.He need not have worried.I had more than one lady friend in my life at that point,though I'm not certain any of them were a serious interested.I explained that I did not want to be married,but my father said that was nonsense,he expected me to find a suitable wife.Unknown to either of us,that would be accomplished in less than a year.For a long time I was offended about being asked if I was a homosexual,but with time I came to realize my father asked it out of worry and concern.
We visited my fathers cousin in Port Alberni and it was a good thing as she was to pass away a short time later.We had a picnic by a wonderful waterfall and when we left for Vancouver my father seemed reinvigorated and happy.The trip seemed to end much better than it began.
It was to be nearly two years until I was to see my family again and by that time I had a wife and a son on the way.My father had seemed to lose ground again,though he was still working ans it must have been some time before he had his stroke.Still he did not seem at all well.He took to Susan well and accepted her as a daughter and was truly happy to know that a grandchild was on the way.In all ways that I can recall it was a happy visit and Matthew was born in October of 1983.
As far as being a grandfather was concerned,my father took an active role,though his health was declining.We saw my parents nearly every year through the 1980's and every year my father seemed worse off.In 1987,in Ottawa,the weekend of the tornado in Edmonton,he seemed convinced his time was not long,and talked to me about his will.I didn't perceive it as an especially urgent matter and this seemed to annoy my father as he tried to tell me what he wanted done at his passing.By this time he was not doing any of the driving,my mother was taking a greater and greater role in running the household,and in my fathers care too.He had had at least two strokes by this time.A year later,we met in Ottawa again and drove back to Moncton.It was a hot summer and the trip seemed to drain my father to the point where he was tired and sick for the remainder of our visit.
My youngest sister moved west and in 1990 was ready to give birth to my fathers second grandchild.My parents came to visit and stayed at my place in Edmonton.Zachary was born on September 11 and they all went back to New Brunswick by car shortly after.My father looked frail and as weak and tired as I had ever seen him.
A year later,Susan and I separated and later divorced,and I believe my father had a hard time with the idea of divorce.Still he supported me in going back to school,even financially for a while.He seemed proud when I graduated,though whenever he called he must have been under the influence of powerful medication,for he became harder and harder to understand.Tracking a phone conversation with him was very difficult by 1995.What was transpiring was a continued series of strokes that was to last for the remainder of his life.
By 2000,I'd moved to Calgary,and it must have been a year or two later that my mother and father set out by train to visit me.I was looking forward to the visit,and called on the night they were to have arrived only to find that they had cancelled their reservation.It turned out that my father had had some sort of an attack on the train in Toronto,and they'd turned back.After that he became quite sick,so that he'd not even talk on the phone.I was not to see him again until 2006,after the car wreck that took my mothers life,and left my father severely injured and without his wife and caregiver.So unnecessary,I thought,and still do.He seemed so small and frail and I knew that this was a thing he would never really come back from.I could not be certain what it was he knew then.He had a hard time tracking conversations and didn't seem to grasp,at least not all the time,that my mother was gone.I heard him from time to time call out her name.At other times I didn't think he recognized me,at least for a few short moments.It was such a tragedy and I thought,no matter how good or bad he had been,he deserved better than where his life had left him.He had deserved something more merciful.
Fathers Day Part IV
We are born I think,thinking our parents are invincible,able to do anything.Mostly it's because we are small and there are very few things we have learned to do.We depend upon parents for everything in our early years.
And in my early years it seemed my father could do everything.Read a newspaper or a bedtime story.Write things in letters that were still a mystery to me.He could teach us to write too:words like cat and hat,or even cow and dog.He could drive a car,a machine that was impossibly big and dangerous,yet he could take us anywhere we wanted to go safely.It was truly a miracle,for it resulted in us being able to see others,such as our grandparents,or in us being able to bring food home from the store.And he knew all about the places we were passing and told us all about them,be they an old building or a barn or a road.He could even fly a plane too,though I only saw him do it once.But he knew all about any sort of car or plane.Moreover,he was tall,good looking,fast and strong.He could run or push a swing or carry my sister or myself if we tired of walking.He was powerful enough to protect us from whatever dangers might come to the point that we were never aware that there were dangers.He knew,too that we needed to learn to be good people,to do right rather than wrong.He read us all the Bible stories about Adam and Eve,Noah,David,Jonah and Moses.He told us about Heaven and Hell.Heaven,to him was a place good people go and we should want to go there.So we needed to tell the truth,and not steal or swear and to honor our parents.And he made the flames of Hell seem so real that I wanted very much to do only what was good,though I didn't know if I could ever be good enough to avoid burning.But I knew that my father was there to teach me,and,being small I placed my confidence in him.His discipline could be swift and harsh or very subtle.
But we grow,and eventually discover that our parents have feet of clay.We start to see that our parents may not always tell all of the truth all of the time,that they may take things that don't strictly speaking belong to them,or that they don't always talk kindly about their own parents.And sometime they tell us"don't do as I do,do as I say."Then they fall back on that commandment about honoring your parents, and God,and Hell with it's burning fires is a very big stick.But if my father were so invincible,why the need such a powerful weapon.The truth is,and we soon start to see it, is that there are thing happening that have command over our parents too.They are very powerful things and in many instances they are so powerful that they cannot be resisted.
Such was the way my fathers life was.He had his weaknesses,while trying hard to do well and to move his family forward.One of the first things I noticed regarding his fallibility was that he never went to church with us,and so I never knew what he believed,or why.For a few Sundays when I was perhaps ten,he came to church and I believe it must have been at my mothers urging,as I was getting to be of an age where I didn't want to go to church either.My reasoning consisted solely of"if Dad doesn't go,why do I have to?"At home he never spoke of God and for that matter,neither did my mother to any great degree.Church belonged mostly to Sunday morning and we were not a greatly religious family aside from that.I came to know in later years that the Father should be the spiritual head of the household,and my father simply wasn't.For one reason or another he simply wasn't able.I don't hold this against him in any way,though I do believe that I was not subject to the parental example I needed to have at the time.
As I grew older,my father began to be more obvious in some of his weaknesses.He seemed angry much of the time,for reasons unknown to me.He didn't seem to associate much with men his own age,and it may well have had to do with his having only a grade eight education and being perhaps self conscious of that reality.Because of this he seemed subject,more than he should be to the influence of others.When a neighbor began spending more time around our house and making political pronouncements to the effect that the French people in our midst were trying to take over our country and cause us English people disadvantage socially,my father bought in to the idea.And so did I.And it's always been a matter in which I wished I'd had more of the right kind of guidance so that I would not have had to unlearn a lot of bigotry.My father could be civil to anyone,and was far from being hate filled like our neighbor.I think he truly believed in the goodness of people.But he allowed our neighbor to be a greater force in his home than he was himself.At those time he just seemed to swing in the wind,though I saw a different side to him when we were alone.I wasn't necessarily able to define what that side of him was though.
Throughout all of my childhood my father liked to drink beer.I never really though much about it until I reached my teens.I knew beer could make you drunk,but I'd never seen my father drunk,and wasn't sure what the significance of drunkenness was in any event.I'd never viewed my father as an alcoholic,and in fact still don't.But I may be wrong about that.When I was a teenager my father and I would make many short trips away from home,usually to the cottage,or Springhill or some such place.Almost all of those trips involved a trip to the liquor store for a six pack of beer.Six didn't seem very many and hence the idea in my head that because he didn't drink much,he couldn't be an alcoholic.The problem was that it didn't take much to make my father quite silly,though he never became mean when drinking.But still,nothing functioned normally after he had had six beers.No conversation seemed to make sense and whatever we had come to do never seemed to get done.If we were putting a new roof on the cottage,it would remain unfinished.Sometimes we would go to town and I would end up driving home when I was just learning to drive.I still trusted my father at these times but cognitive dissonance could take up a big space in my life then too.
My father I think was having a hard time hanging on.He still went to work everyday,and still provided for us,but his life must have been uncommonly difficult.But as always he sheltered us from all that,believing,I suppose that it was a good thing to do.But as I entered my last year or two of high school I realized the my father was in decline.When I moved to Alberta it became more noticeable every time I returned for a visit,or every time my parents would visit me.At some point he began having strokes and his decline was long and difficult to watch.Because we did not see each other everyday I could see how far he had slipped every time I did see him.It was very obvious when viewing it that way.
And in my early years it seemed my father could do everything.Read a newspaper or a bedtime story.Write things in letters that were still a mystery to me.He could teach us to write too:words like cat and hat,or even cow and dog.He could drive a car,a machine that was impossibly big and dangerous,yet he could take us anywhere we wanted to go safely.It was truly a miracle,for it resulted in us being able to see others,such as our grandparents,or in us being able to bring food home from the store.And he knew all about the places we were passing and told us all about them,be they an old building or a barn or a road.He could even fly a plane too,though I only saw him do it once.But he knew all about any sort of car or plane.Moreover,he was tall,good looking,fast and strong.He could run or push a swing or carry my sister or myself if we tired of walking.He was powerful enough to protect us from whatever dangers might come to the point that we were never aware that there were dangers.He knew,too that we needed to learn to be good people,to do right rather than wrong.He read us all the Bible stories about Adam and Eve,Noah,David,Jonah and Moses.He told us about Heaven and Hell.Heaven,to him was a place good people go and we should want to go there.So we needed to tell the truth,and not steal or swear and to honor our parents.And he made the flames of Hell seem so real that I wanted very much to do only what was good,though I didn't know if I could ever be good enough to avoid burning.But I knew that my father was there to teach me,and,being small I placed my confidence in him.His discipline could be swift and harsh or very subtle.
But we grow,and eventually discover that our parents have feet of clay.We start to see that our parents may not always tell all of the truth all of the time,that they may take things that don't strictly speaking belong to them,or that they don't always talk kindly about their own parents.And sometime they tell us"don't do as I do,do as I say."Then they fall back on that commandment about honoring your parents, and God,and Hell with it's burning fires is a very big stick.But if my father were so invincible,why the need such a powerful weapon.The truth is,and we soon start to see it, is that there are thing happening that have command over our parents too.They are very powerful things and in many instances they are so powerful that they cannot be resisted.
Such was the way my fathers life was.He had his weaknesses,while trying hard to do well and to move his family forward.One of the first things I noticed regarding his fallibility was that he never went to church with us,and so I never knew what he believed,or why.For a few Sundays when I was perhaps ten,he came to church and I believe it must have been at my mothers urging,as I was getting to be of an age where I didn't want to go to church either.My reasoning consisted solely of"if Dad doesn't go,why do I have to?"At home he never spoke of God and for that matter,neither did my mother to any great degree.Church belonged mostly to Sunday morning and we were not a greatly religious family aside from that.I came to know in later years that the Father should be the spiritual head of the household,and my father simply wasn't.For one reason or another he simply wasn't able.I don't hold this against him in any way,though I do believe that I was not subject to the parental example I needed to have at the time.
As I grew older,my father began to be more obvious in some of his weaknesses.He seemed angry much of the time,for reasons unknown to me.He didn't seem to associate much with men his own age,and it may well have had to do with his having only a grade eight education and being perhaps self conscious of that reality.Because of this he seemed subject,more than he should be to the influence of others.When a neighbor began spending more time around our house and making political pronouncements to the effect that the French people in our midst were trying to take over our country and cause us English people disadvantage socially,my father bought in to the idea.And so did I.And it's always been a matter in which I wished I'd had more of the right kind of guidance so that I would not have had to unlearn a lot of bigotry.My father could be civil to anyone,and was far from being hate filled like our neighbor.I think he truly believed in the goodness of people.But he allowed our neighbor to be a greater force in his home than he was himself.At those time he just seemed to swing in the wind,though I saw a different side to him when we were alone.I wasn't necessarily able to define what that side of him was though.
Throughout all of my childhood my father liked to drink beer.I never really though much about it until I reached my teens.I knew beer could make you drunk,but I'd never seen my father drunk,and wasn't sure what the significance of drunkenness was in any event.I'd never viewed my father as an alcoholic,and in fact still don't.But I may be wrong about that.When I was a teenager my father and I would make many short trips away from home,usually to the cottage,or Springhill or some such place.Almost all of those trips involved a trip to the liquor store for a six pack of beer.Six didn't seem very many and hence the idea in my head that because he didn't drink much,he couldn't be an alcoholic.The problem was that it didn't take much to make my father quite silly,though he never became mean when drinking.But still,nothing functioned normally after he had had six beers.No conversation seemed to make sense and whatever we had come to do never seemed to get done.If we were putting a new roof on the cottage,it would remain unfinished.Sometimes we would go to town and I would end up driving home when I was just learning to drive.I still trusted my father at these times but cognitive dissonance could take up a big space in my life then too.
My father I think was having a hard time hanging on.He still went to work everyday,and still provided for us,but his life must have been uncommonly difficult.But as always he sheltered us from all that,believing,I suppose that it was a good thing to do.But as I entered my last year or two of high school I realized the my father was in decline.When I moved to Alberta it became more noticeable every time I returned for a visit,or every time my parents would visit me.At some point he began having strokes and his decline was long and difficult to watch.Because we did not see each other everyday I could see how far he had slipped every time I did see him.It was very obvious when viewing it that way.
Friday 15 June 2012
Fathers Day Part III
I said my father was an enigma.There were truly some things that confused me about him.I guess in that I am hardly alone.Most people I know say the same thing,and to a greater or lesser degree it seems true of most people too.Partly it's necessary,I think that we not know all there is to know about our parents.I often think of the Biblical story of Noah.Not the flood,but the story of his sons discovering his nakedness and what each of them did about it.It is not,on the one hand,good for children to know of all things in a parents life.It can diminish respect.On the other hand,parents are there to be role models.Children,though don't always understand what is being role modeled to them.I wish I knew more about my father,my whole family in fact.But they were not the type to boast,so I was not raised immersed in family history and so I'm left to the damnable state of drawing my own conclusions.
My father was ever one to sacrifice for his family.He drove eighty miles each way to work so,as he once told me,we would not have to go to school in rural northeastern New Brunswick,where some of the worst funded schools in the entire country were located.In Moncton we would have a lot of conveniences not available to us if we had lived closer to where my father worked.All very true,and so he drove,eighty miles to work and eighty miles home,day after day,year after year.It took a toll,for he often seemed tired,not just as a hard working person might,but as someone more weary than normal more of the time.I've no doubt that it weakened him and ultimately shortened his life.And it's difficult not to admire the sacrifice,for it truly was a good one in terms of what our quality of life was.
A few years ago I found out something about my fathers sacrifice that I did not know.And this is where the enigma rears it's head.I'd met Steven Wright here in Calgary more than a decade ago now and of course we fell into talking about people in New Brunswick,including my father.Steven is related to people on my mothers side of the family.During this conversation,he related to me that my father could have had a transfer to a military installation in Moncton,just a ten minute drive away.The only stipulation was that he would have to learn to speak French,at the governments time and expense.He refused,for whatever reason.I,of course was not aware of this at the time.At the time relations between English and French in Moncton were not always the best.But I truly did not believe that my father would have been motivated by hatred to the point of not wanting the opportunity to improve himself.This seems now to be especially inane in view of the fact that he traveled all the way to Chilliwack,British Columbia,in the fall of 1968,for upgrading that his employer also required.And so,the sacrifice continued,eighty miles,twice a day.But I really don't understand the nature of sacrifice,I think.How necessary was it?I can accept it as being one of those difficult choices that adults sometimes have to make.
It's so difficult to fully describe my father and to say nothing of his health,and the effect it must have had upon him.I can never recall him being in really good health for a long period of time.When I was young he had the bigger part of his stomach removed because of ulcers,and I had no idea how serious such an operation was in those days,or of how it must have worried my mother.He had a gall bladder removed when I was a bit older too.
Of course,in his later years he was ravaged by strokes,one after another,until he was dependent on others for his care.All of this had a great effect on how I viewed my father,and on how our relationship went during most of my adult life.But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Physical health was one thing,but I believe my father had some mental health issues he struggled with as well.Still he went on providing for us,and,I believe,sheltering us from the state of his health.Another sacrifice.Aside from the view of having very little power within himself,there was at least on incident I recall that would cause me some concern,if I had only knew then what I know now.Our street was in a residential area and was posted as a no truck route.Still the trucks took a short cut through and this made my father angry.So angry in fact that he backed his car out on the street on morning and blocked a truck from going past.During the incident,the truck drove into the side of his car,and the police were called.As the years passed,my father spent a lot of time at home sleeping.Far more time than normal.He spent a lot of time away at the summer cottage too.I never though much about any of this at the time,but in looking back it seems my father had a lot of occupations that might have been though of as a means of avoiding...something.I wonder now what that something could have been
Sometime after returning from British Columbia my father took a second job selling cars.I should mention that he always regarded British Columbia very fondly,and at times talked of transferring there.It seemed to me that the time right after he got back was a very happy time for him and he was very enthusiastic about life in general.Never have I seen him look more happy and natural as he did in a photo of himself with a couple of fish he caught in the Vedder River during that trip.So,it was likely that vigor that motivated him to take his second job.He worked at it for a few years,maybe ten or so,then quit,but his boss always remained a friend.
It was my fathers second job that caused a number of people to come into our life,and our home,and to bring about another part of his enigmatic nature.He seemed to like mentoring young men.He sold a number of these men their first cars,and at least two of them became friends of the family.Dana Weaver and Lawrence Wilbur,then later,Lawrence's brother Phillip.My father was best man at Dana Weavers wedding,and during the mid to late 1970's he and the Wilbur boys became good friends.They were often out doing things together.And this troubled me somewhat.Not that I could articulate that at the time.I suppose there was a bit of jealously to it if I were to be perfectly honest.But there were times when I guess I needed my father to be there and he was not,and so I never got the benefit of his point of view on some problem I was having.
I think the truth of the relationship that my father had with the Wilbur boys was that he found friends that he could hang out with,and perhaps share a beer with.When I think of it now,there were many people that my father knew,but I don't believe he had a friend roughly his own age with whom he could relate to on a purely friendly,man to man way.I think that is what the Wilbur boys became,at least for a while-neither sons,nor father and not exactly peers either.
My father was ever one to sacrifice for his family.He drove eighty miles each way to work so,as he once told me,we would not have to go to school in rural northeastern New Brunswick,where some of the worst funded schools in the entire country were located.In Moncton we would have a lot of conveniences not available to us if we had lived closer to where my father worked.All very true,and so he drove,eighty miles to work and eighty miles home,day after day,year after year.It took a toll,for he often seemed tired,not just as a hard working person might,but as someone more weary than normal more of the time.I've no doubt that it weakened him and ultimately shortened his life.And it's difficult not to admire the sacrifice,for it truly was a good one in terms of what our quality of life was.
A few years ago I found out something about my fathers sacrifice that I did not know.And this is where the enigma rears it's head.I'd met Steven Wright here in Calgary more than a decade ago now and of course we fell into talking about people in New Brunswick,including my father.Steven is related to people on my mothers side of the family.During this conversation,he related to me that my father could have had a transfer to a military installation in Moncton,just a ten minute drive away.The only stipulation was that he would have to learn to speak French,at the governments time and expense.He refused,for whatever reason.I,of course was not aware of this at the time.At the time relations between English and French in Moncton were not always the best.But I truly did not believe that my father would have been motivated by hatred to the point of not wanting the opportunity to improve himself.This seems now to be especially inane in view of the fact that he traveled all the way to Chilliwack,British Columbia,in the fall of 1968,for upgrading that his employer also required.And so,the sacrifice continued,eighty miles,twice a day.But I really don't understand the nature of sacrifice,I think.How necessary was it?I can accept it as being one of those difficult choices that adults sometimes have to make.
It's so difficult to fully describe my father and to say nothing of his health,and the effect it must have had upon him.I can never recall him being in really good health for a long period of time.When I was young he had the bigger part of his stomach removed because of ulcers,and I had no idea how serious such an operation was in those days,or of how it must have worried my mother.He had a gall bladder removed when I was a bit older too.
Of course,in his later years he was ravaged by strokes,one after another,until he was dependent on others for his care.All of this had a great effect on how I viewed my father,and on how our relationship went during most of my adult life.But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Physical health was one thing,but I believe my father had some mental health issues he struggled with as well.Still he went on providing for us,and,I believe,sheltering us from the state of his health.Another sacrifice.Aside from the view of having very little power within himself,there was at least on incident I recall that would cause me some concern,if I had only knew then what I know now.Our street was in a residential area and was posted as a no truck route.Still the trucks took a short cut through and this made my father angry.So angry in fact that he backed his car out on the street on morning and blocked a truck from going past.During the incident,the truck drove into the side of his car,and the police were called.As the years passed,my father spent a lot of time at home sleeping.Far more time than normal.He spent a lot of time away at the summer cottage too.I never though much about any of this at the time,but in looking back it seems my father had a lot of occupations that might have been though of as a means of avoiding...something.I wonder now what that something could have been
Sometime after returning from British Columbia my father took a second job selling cars.I should mention that he always regarded British Columbia very fondly,and at times talked of transferring there.It seemed to me that the time right after he got back was a very happy time for him and he was very enthusiastic about life in general.Never have I seen him look more happy and natural as he did in a photo of himself with a couple of fish he caught in the Vedder River during that trip.So,it was likely that vigor that motivated him to take his second job.He worked at it for a few years,maybe ten or so,then quit,but his boss always remained a friend.
It was my fathers second job that caused a number of people to come into our life,and our home,and to bring about another part of his enigmatic nature.He seemed to like mentoring young men.He sold a number of these men their first cars,and at least two of them became friends of the family.Dana Weaver and Lawrence Wilbur,then later,Lawrence's brother Phillip.My father was best man at Dana Weavers wedding,and during the mid to late 1970's he and the Wilbur boys became good friends.They were often out doing things together.And this troubled me somewhat.Not that I could articulate that at the time.I suppose there was a bit of jealously to it if I were to be perfectly honest.But there were times when I guess I needed my father to be there and he was not,and so I never got the benefit of his point of view on some problem I was having.
I think the truth of the relationship that my father had with the Wilbur boys was that he found friends that he could hang out with,and perhaps share a beer with.When I think of it now,there were many people that my father knew,but I don't believe he had a friend roughly his own age with whom he could relate to on a purely friendly,man to man way.I think that is what the Wilbur boys became,at least for a while-neither sons,nor father and not exactly peers either.
Fathers Day Part II
My father was troubled.There is no doubt in my mind about that.His troubles reveal much about him.It makes me hope that God will deal justly and mercifully with him,as we know he does with all of his children.
In looking over my notes of recollections for this entry,two incidents that my father described to me come to mind as being especially revealing in terms of how his life was,or at least how he perceived it to be.
When he came to Goose Bay,in what I take to be the years before my mother entered the picture,my father describes a meeting with a man he calls a "minister"-that is to say a clergyman,though I'm not sure of what faith.According to my father,he was in a military barracks of some sort and had gone to take a shower.He never really said what prompted his behavior.It may be that he slipped on a wet floor or because of some other misadventure or simply because that was the way he was accustomed to speaking in those days,but he found himself in the privacy of his shower"swearing and cursing and taking the Lords name in vain"There was another man in a nearby shower stall and as they both finished showering and began drying themselves,the other man introduced himself as a preacher and noted"you certainly know how to curse."In telling the story,my father notes that he found the incident"embarrassing"though he doesn't say exactly why.Was he embarrassed by the words he was using,or by the chance encounter with a preacher while using those words?When we were small,we were not permitted to swear,and my father kept a good example in that regard.But that seemed to fade as we grew older and I came to realize that there were few words that my father would not use.He contained his habit for the good of his children,but it was a habit nonetheless.It speaks to me of his life being quite troubled shortly after he left Springhill,for what person who uses profanity is not troubled?
The second of the two incidents that my father described being involved in,or,to be more precise,the second and third incidents,involved roadside encounters on his way either to or from work.Most of his working career he commuted eighty miles each way to work.Late one night he encountered a man on the side of the road that he described to me as an "Indian."He stopped and offered the man a ride only to eventually find himself at knife point for some reason that he never fully related,though I do not believe he was being robbed.He managed to get the person out of his car at some point and escaped harm.Of course he vowed never to put himself in that position again.Eventually the situation arose when he faced a similar choice and drove past a stranded motorist believing he was doing the right thing.In the morning,he said,he found out that the person he passed had been found dead on the side of the road and he took it very hard.I've no idea if the incidents really happened.There seemed to me to be a lot of missing details,such that the stories might have been allegorical,to be used as teaching tools.But they seemed to point to what may have been my fathers worldview.That he had very little power within himself to do the right thing no matter how hard he tried.That he would always be criticized,that any given action would somehow turn out wrong."Damned if I do,Damned if I don't"was a phrase I heard him use more than once.And these stories were given to me in the context of a conversation on learning to do the right thing.
My father would go out of his way to help people.At times he seemed the sort of man who would give you the shirt off his back.At times he seemed exactly the opposite.But what made him change from one view to the other I don't know.He seemed to think,at least some of the time that no one would ever lift a finger to help him and so no one was entitled to his help either.It may have simply been a response to something going on in his life at that particular time that he did not share with us.I think that is the likely truth.I also think he was positively influenced by his wife and our mother.Simply put,he seemed to be a better person when she was around.
In looking over my notes of recollections for this entry,two incidents that my father described to me come to mind as being especially revealing in terms of how his life was,or at least how he perceived it to be.
When he came to Goose Bay,in what I take to be the years before my mother entered the picture,my father describes a meeting with a man he calls a "minister"-that is to say a clergyman,though I'm not sure of what faith.According to my father,he was in a military barracks of some sort and had gone to take a shower.He never really said what prompted his behavior.It may be that he slipped on a wet floor or because of some other misadventure or simply because that was the way he was accustomed to speaking in those days,but he found himself in the privacy of his shower"swearing and cursing and taking the Lords name in vain"There was another man in a nearby shower stall and as they both finished showering and began drying themselves,the other man introduced himself as a preacher and noted"you certainly know how to curse."In telling the story,my father notes that he found the incident"embarrassing"though he doesn't say exactly why.Was he embarrassed by the words he was using,or by the chance encounter with a preacher while using those words?When we were small,we were not permitted to swear,and my father kept a good example in that regard.But that seemed to fade as we grew older and I came to realize that there were few words that my father would not use.He contained his habit for the good of his children,but it was a habit nonetheless.It speaks to me of his life being quite troubled shortly after he left Springhill,for what person who uses profanity is not troubled?
The second of the two incidents that my father described being involved in,or,to be more precise,the second and third incidents,involved roadside encounters on his way either to or from work.Most of his working career he commuted eighty miles each way to work.Late one night he encountered a man on the side of the road that he described to me as an "Indian."He stopped and offered the man a ride only to eventually find himself at knife point for some reason that he never fully related,though I do not believe he was being robbed.He managed to get the person out of his car at some point and escaped harm.Of course he vowed never to put himself in that position again.Eventually the situation arose when he faced a similar choice and drove past a stranded motorist believing he was doing the right thing.In the morning,he said,he found out that the person he passed had been found dead on the side of the road and he took it very hard.I've no idea if the incidents really happened.There seemed to me to be a lot of missing details,such that the stories might have been allegorical,to be used as teaching tools.But they seemed to point to what may have been my fathers worldview.That he had very little power within himself to do the right thing no matter how hard he tried.That he would always be criticized,that any given action would somehow turn out wrong."Damned if I do,Damned if I don't"was a phrase I heard him use more than once.And these stories were given to me in the context of a conversation on learning to do the right thing.
My father would go out of his way to help people.At times he seemed the sort of man who would give you the shirt off his back.At times he seemed exactly the opposite.But what made him change from one view to the other I don't know.He seemed to think,at least some of the time that no one would ever lift a finger to help him and so no one was entitled to his help either.It may have simply been a response to something going on in his life at that particular time that he did not share with us.I think that is the likely truth.I also think he was positively influenced by his wife and our mother.Simply put,he seemed to be a better person when she was around.
Fathers Day
Fathers Day is not until Sunday,but I believe I will get started writing about it a day or two early,because this may take more than one post to complete.
I wish I could offer up a more or less glowing tribute to my father,as I did with my mother a month or so ago.But I'm sorry to say I cannot.You see,the man was largely an enigma to me.Most of what I'm going to say is informed by either things I've heard him say about himself,or from years of watching him,mostly in childhood years.Still I'm not certain I got it all right.I don't want to judge him morally.That is not the intent of what I'm doing here,though there are some who will more than willingly read that into it,just so they can be justified in taking offense.So be it.
Firstly I need to clear up some misconceptions about my father and myself that have been out there for a number of years.While riding in the back of a car through central New Brunswick,Canada a number of years ago,I was informed that some thirty odd years ago,I left home because I didn't get along with my father.This was,for whatever stated as though it were Gospel fact and for all intents and purposes it was said as though I were not even in the car.Now it may be that the person who said this was lying,or simply misinformed.But to be certain,neither they ,or anyone else for that matter has ever mentioned that to me,never mind checking their perceptions or asking my side of the story.Well,suffice it to say,for now that my reasons for leaving home had very little to do with anything other than economic reality and that,as far as I am aware,not only my father,but both parents were supportive of my decision at the time.But I repeat,it was not a decision that had anything to do with the state or relations with my father.I expect to more fully explain my decision at some future date,either here or elsewhere,but if you're not willing to ask,then you'll just have to wait.
Secondly,there seems to be the rather vicious rumor floating around that once I proclaimed myself Christian,that I came to the conclusion that my father was "going to Hell."Again,I did not and do not think that,not only of my father,but of any other person.Simply put,it's bad theology to hold a belief in any way similar to that.I simply do not and cannot know the condition of another persons soul,nor will I even try.I can see or hear the way a person behaves without necessarily knowing what motivates that behavior,so I will try to regard others in a way that is free from judging their soul.The person who started this rumor should do likewise,or at least come to the source and ask if they believe this to be true.As it is,this seems like an attack on Christian belief with no regard to collateral damage.Nothing new there.
In preparing this blog entry I made several pages of notes,and it's hard to know where to start.Let me say,I don't believe my father was a bad person.I do believe that he carried a heavy burden through this world.As with most burdens,one never knows how heavy it is until one puts it down.And I'm not at all certain that my father ever put his down.He believed in justice,in right and wrong and in trying to live a good a decent life.He believed in doing the right thing,though I'm not certain many of the people he met in life would allow him to do that which he saw as right.You see,being a man is never really easy.Mostly it's being under a state of constant attack no matter what you do.The most you can hope for,it seems to me is the support of one or two dedicated friends that truly know you.I'm not even certain my father had that.I believe that his life was troubled,even haunted by demons that he had no idea how to rid himself of, as much as he may have tried.Years ago,when I was perhaps eight or nine he asked me to be certain, when he died that "Peace In The Valley"was sung at his funeral.I believe peace to have been the greatest longing of his heart.
Before I continue,let me say this.Our father was a good provider.There was always food on our table and a comfortable house to live in.We were not wealthy,nor did we really want for much that we really needed.I did not often hear my mother and father fighting or even openly disagreeing.There may well have been challenges in their marriage.In fact I would be surprised if there were not.But they believed in staying united because of their children,and,ultimately because they promised each other that they would.You don't see much of that in today's world.It is a credit to the man who was my father,whatever else his shortcomings may have been.
I wish I could offer up a more or less glowing tribute to my father,as I did with my mother a month or so ago.But I'm sorry to say I cannot.You see,the man was largely an enigma to me.Most of what I'm going to say is informed by either things I've heard him say about himself,or from years of watching him,mostly in childhood years.Still I'm not certain I got it all right.I don't want to judge him morally.That is not the intent of what I'm doing here,though there are some who will more than willingly read that into it,just so they can be justified in taking offense.So be it.
Firstly I need to clear up some misconceptions about my father and myself that have been out there for a number of years.While riding in the back of a car through central New Brunswick,Canada a number of years ago,I was informed that some thirty odd years ago,I left home because I didn't get along with my father.This was,for whatever stated as though it were Gospel fact and for all intents and purposes it was said as though I were not even in the car.Now it may be that the person who said this was lying,or simply misinformed.But to be certain,neither they ,or anyone else for that matter has ever mentioned that to me,never mind checking their perceptions or asking my side of the story.Well,suffice it to say,for now that my reasons for leaving home had very little to do with anything other than economic reality and that,as far as I am aware,not only my father,but both parents were supportive of my decision at the time.But I repeat,it was not a decision that had anything to do with the state or relations with my father.I expect to more fully explain my decision at some future date,either here or elsewhere,but if you're not willing to ask,then you'll just have to wait.
Secondly,there seems to be the rather vicious rumor floating around that once I proclaimed myself Christian,that I came to the conclusion that my father was "going to Hell."Again,I did not and do not think that,not only of my father,but of any other person.Simply put,it's bad theology to hold a belief in any way similar to that.I simply do not and cannot know the condition of another persons soul,nor will I even try.I can see or hear the way a person behaves without necessarily knowing what motivates that behavior,so I will try to regard others in a way that is free from judging their soul.The person who started this rumor should do likewise,or at least come to the source and ask if they believe this to be true.As it is,this seems like an attack on Christian belief with no regard to collateral damage.Nothing new there.
In preparing this blog entry I made several pages of notes,and it's hard to know where to start.Let me say,I don't believe my father was a bad person.I do believe that he carried a heavy burden through this world.As with most burdens,one never knows how heavy it is until one puts it down.And I'm not at all certain that my father ever put his down.He believed in justice,in right and wrong and in trying to live a good a decent life.He believed in doing the right thing,though I'm not certain many of the people he met in life would allow him to do that which he saw as right.You see,being a man is never really easy.Mostly it's being under a state of constant attack no matter what you do.The most you can hope for,it seems to me is the support of one or two dedicated friends that truly know you.I'm not even certain my father had that.I believe that his life was troubled,even haunted by demons that he had no idea how to rid himself of, as much as he may have tried.Years ago,when I was perhaps eight or nine he asked me to be certain, when he died that "Peace In The Valley"was sung at his funeral.I believe peace to have been the greatest longing of his heart.
Before I continue,let me say this.Our father was a good provider.There was always food on our table and a comfortable house to live in.We were not wealthy,nor did we really want for much that we really needed.I did not often hear my mother and father fighting or even openly disagreeing.There may well have been challenges in their marriage.In fact I would be surprised if there were not.But they believed in staying united because of their children,and,ultimately because they promised each other that they would.You don't see much of that in today's world.It is a credit to the man who was my father,whatever else his shortcomings may have been.
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