#50 Men, agents of and pathway to cultural metanoia (Letter to Dad)
Dear Dad:
Although you have been gone for some twenty-plus
years, your memory not only lingers, it keeps reminding me of your wonderful
wit and empathic sensibility, as well as your struggles to cope with some of
the turbulences in your life. While I am deeply grateful for your many
unrelenting kindnesses, support, encouragement and presence, I am also
profoundly sad that, like so many men, in your generation and also in ensuring
generations, you experienced a kind of personal, cultural gagging, a repression
of your own needs, aspirations, desires and opinions.
Naturally, while every man’s experience of his
personal “withholding” is different, conditioned by factors unique and
individual, there is a collective similarity to their identity, their roots and
their implications for generations of young men who follow you.
Your work life essentially defined you, given your
full and unsullied commitment to the “hardware store” you managed for so many
decades. Your invoices, “extended” on the dining room table, for so many
nights, and the stoker furnace, whose hopper you so diligently filled each
Sunday after church during those long cold winter months, are just some of the
detailed memories of your diligence, your responsibility and your graceful ease
in that role.
The oft-repeated chant from your summer customers,
“Where’s George?” announced the date, immediately following the Victoria Day
holiday, of the opening of the real
retail season that kept the business open and successful. There can be little
doubt that at least 75% of all retailers in our little town did at least 75% of
their annual sales from May 24th until Labour Day. It was a cliché
known to every ‘native’ to the town, that, after Labour Day, anyone could shoot
a cannon down Main Street, without disturbing a single soul. The ‘head’ of
Black Diamond sports manufacturing, the namesake of the T. Eaton store in
Toronto, the manager of the Iron City club and island are just some of the
people whose aura and curiosity sought you out, for their “vacation home”
tools, fishing gear and occasionally their fine china gifts. I also recall
echoes of the name Tommy Tweed, the Canadian actor, in reminiscences you shared
with your family at summer feasts on Georgian Bay.
The series of regular and anticipated dinner guests in
our home included the Glidden Paint representative, Harley Taylor, of North
Bay, the starting pitcher of the North Bay Garland Pepsi’s in the Ontario
fastball league. It was Harley Taylor, who after winning the Ontario
championship, ordered his championship jacket in my size, when I was only ten,
and delivered it when he came to dinner. A grey melton ¾ jacket, with bright
red leather sleeves, and chenille lettering, the surprising gift was one of my
prize possessions, throughout my childhood. Ernie Halpenney, the sales
representative from White Hardware, now shuttered, also lived in North Bay. A
veteran of the first world war, he offered a few glimpses of his war
experiences in later years, when I was teaching there, as part of my search for
information about how veterans experienced that conflict. Ross Brown, a fishing
tackle company representative, along with the exuberant, even effervescent rep.
from Modern Housewares were also fondly recalled dinner guetsts and windows on
a wider world to my naïve, somewhat closeted childhood and adolescence in that
little town on the Georgian Bay shore.
I can still see ‘pictures’ in my mind’s eye of you as
you flood the rink in the backyard, with a single light bulb hanging from the
clothesline. Your frosty breath is surging from your mouth and nose, in the
frozen dry air of a January night in the mid-fifties. In spite of the rock
outcrop on the one side of the rink, and the little knoll of ice it refused to
surrender, I recall warm and happy memories of the opportunity to test my
mettle on those first single-blade skates (as compared with ‘bob-skates’ and
their inverted “v” blades). It is not incidental to note that our’s was the
only backyard rink in the neighbourhood.
Sadly, I also recall the sleigh that someone borrowed
and forgetfully left behind their father’s car in their driveway. As he backed
out, he drove over the sleigh, bending the metal tracks and breaking the wooden
top and the “X” structure that enabled minor steering. You worked with Eddie
Johnston, the blacksmith, in his shop for several evenings to restore that
sleigh to working health, without ever uttering a word of complaint to the
young boy whose forgetfulness generated the need for the repairs.
At the time ‘your’ store was in the business of
selling bicycles, the Raleigh brand, as I recall, you brought home a brand-new
maroon bike which I could hardly wait to take from its storage under the back
sunroom at the first sign of Spring. And then, in the summer when I had the
opportunity to attend Camp Wa-ye-kwa-kana with Robert Bradey, that bike was
stolen from our front porch, where I had left it behind the wicker rockers in
front of the large living room window. Very shortly after I returned from camp,
I recall you brought home a new version, a hybrid with gears. And while I liked
the replacement, it really never could compare with the romance, the adventure
and the sheer excitement of the original.
Other tactile memories of your person include a
splendid gold Oyster watch, a mid-brown camel-hair overcoat, a highly dignified
and dignifying fedora and your preference for your slender yet highly valued
wardrobe. As walking was one of your preferred Sunday activities, I can recall
many trips “around the bridges” (Cascade Street and Seguin Street bridges over
the Seguin River) as I rode my tricycle and you and mother trudged along. Often
too there were cocker spaniels along for the treck.
Earlier on most Sunday’s, too, I recall sitting in the
smallest pew in St. Andrew’s church, when it was time for a hymn. Contrasting
mother’s sonorous soprano with your toneless pitch always brought a secret
smile to me, yet I never ever considered asking whether you might choose
silence over your lame attempt at melody, essentially a monotone. The contrast
was not only striking; it was metaphoric of the divergence and cacophony in
tone, melody, rhythm and world view between you and mother.
I recall your sitting, along with the other members of
the Session of that little church, in the front pews, on those Sundays when
communion was to be celebrated, on average once each month. And then, following
the consecration, along with those “pillars” of the church, you distributed
either or both small squares of white bread and wine from those miniscule cups
throughout the congregation. The sterling trays for both still shine, emblematic
of an historic ritual, a commemoration and a thanksgiving, for something I
found mysterious, and beyond comprehension.
You no doubt recall my decision, at sixteen, to leave
the church, following another of the sermons from the Balleymena bigot,
Reverend Robert Crooks, whose visceral hatred of anything Roman Catholic was
summed up in his declaration, from that elevated pulpit, “If you are Roman
Catholic, you are going to Hell!” And while you never challenged my decision,
not even to ask me if I would reconsider, I do recall hearing you depict the
four men who joined the church leadership soon after the arrival of the
Irishman as the “four just men”…the only words I ever heard from your mouth
that even hinted at expressing a negative thought about another human being.
Your considered respect for each person, whether neighbour, customer, business
colleague, guest, staff under your supervision, athlete on the local hockey
teams, continues to radiate through my memory album, counterpoint to the
barrage of venom that issued from mother about so many people. And then there
was the annual garden we both “spaded” each spring, for the rows of onions, carrots,
radishes, lettuce, pumpkins, squash. Blackflies especially in the early
evenings were no match for your resistance, nor were the later mosquitoes. And
then there are many frames filled with your slightly bent frame and your strong
arm and hand reaching out to grasp gently another of the millions of
raspberries from the four rows of canes that grew alongside the vegetable
patch. Round, cotton sun hats, never a peeked baseball cap, protected your bald
head from the sun’s rays.
Only once, I recall, we went golfing together, in my
early teens. You had refurbished a few used clubs for my use, including a mashie,
on whose shaft you had applied an Elastoplast as surrogate handle. Along with
those clubs, you had helped solder an original steel cart in Johnson’s
blacksmith shop, painted with silver paint, and sporting two wagon wheels. Although
I have no recollection of the kind of score either of us posted, I do recall
with considerable sadness, even angst, that we were delayed on the course by
several foursomes of American tourists. The delays resulted in our returning
home at least an hour after our expected time, for dinner. Not only was this “malfeasance”
unacceptable to mother, (we had no cell phones, or any other communication device
to call ahead our predicament!), I recall specifically her charge that you were
having an affair with my piano teacher, whose brother managed the company store
in which you worked.
Not only did I dismiss the charge as ridiculous; I
also apparently buried it among other serious marital fractures that culminated
in a call for help from you, years later, when I was living and teaching in
North Bay. Among some of the other tensions at home, were the many nights when
supper would be prepared, and set on the table, without mother accompanying the
family to eat. She would have disappeared again, to her privacy and one can only
guess her deep, dark, all-consuming thoughts, attitudes and perceptions of anger,
depression, and who knows what else. All we really knew was that she had absented
herself, just as she did in the middle of the night, apparently following another
of the many quarrels you had, only to appear at the top of the stairs, with her
bag packed, to ask in her most strident and icy voice, “Are you coming with me,
or staying with him?” To which I recall your clear and unequivocal response, “He
does not want to have to make that choice!” She finally left, and I am a little
vague as to the number of days of her
disappearance. I never knew where she went, nor did I ever hear the matter
discussed again.
For these now seventy years, I have wondered,
privately and in conversations with others, including therapists, why you were
unable, unwilling, or frightened to ask for a pause to reconsider the unilateral,
and final decision in that moment. The abandonment I experienced when she left
our home for places unknown, and for an undetermined time seemed to be echoed,
even replicated, in this moment over the hockey tournament. As I recall
vividly, Collingwood had then recently installed what we knew as artificial ice,
just like that in Maple Leaf Gardens, and we both knew that our local arena had
only “natural ice” whose condition depended exclusively on the prevailing
temperature. Of course, I was disappointed, and also confused. Others who have
tried to untangle this scenario have also been baffled by its dynamics, including
the underlying dynamics of a mother who detested anything to do with sports, and
a father whose early life was syncopated with baseball and hockey participation
and spectating.
Equally confused, and more than a little frightened,
have I been for many decades about what it was that drove you to the basement
in the middle of the night, apparently following another of the many “spats” between
you and mother whose cacophony had not wakened me. I recall the bedroom door
being opened, with the light from the hall pouring in, to hear mother shout, “Get
down to the basement right now!” I had no idea why such a provocation was
necessary, nor had I any time to inquire. I had no idea what I was about to
find when I rounded the corner around the corner of the storage cupboard to
face the furnace, the jacket-heater and…only to see you with the .22 pointed at
your head, and you standing behind that water heater. “Give me the gun,” I
recall saying as calmly as I could. You did, and I have no recollection where I
put it, nor any memory of additional conversation about the incident, from that
day to this. I do recall, however, asking you a few weeks before you died, if you
had anything you wanted to talk about, to which you responded, a simple, “No.”
Not long after
that incident, I recall, as I am sure you do too, a time, mid-day, in summer in
the back porch, where mother was ironing. You had been home for lunch and were
about to depart through the porch to return to work. Something she said set
your volcano off, erupting in a violent thrust of your arm in her direction
over the ironing board. As I was sitting in the doorway to your right, noticing
the impending and what would obviously be a crucial blow, I jumped up and struck
you in the ribs on your right side. I had never then, nor at any time since,
struck anyone with my fist. You crumpled to the floor, and limped out the door,
down the back steps, and proceeded to walk the mile or so to work. I have never
been able to wrap my head around how you were able to get back to work, given
your later report that your ribs were broken and you lied to the doctor that
you had fallen down those back steps, as the cause of your broken bones.
Violence, and the silence that kept it in the vaults
of our memories, deeply hidden from public view, dominated my memories of
childhood, along with many hours of practice at the piano, and the occasional
drive to a festival competition. On one trip to Huntsville, you may recall, you
are I were alone when you asked if I wanted to try my hand at driving on a
straight stretch on highway near Utterson. Every time I drive that stretch of
road, I still recall the first time, when I was about fourteen, at the wheel of
the borrowed Monarch, on that sunny morning. Another moment “sitting beside you”
on the back steps, a little later, I remember asking you, “What are we going to
do with that woman, my mother?” Your response still rings in my ears, “I really
don’t know; I have tried everything I could…you are being raised by hitler and chamberlain,
and I am and have been your chamberlain.”
On reflection, I recall a book written in 1960 by CBC
reporter James M. Minifie, “Peace-maker or Powder-Monkey: Canada’s Role in a
Revolutionary World” when I was starting university, a couple of years after our back-steps conversation. How many times have I gravitated to that
title, and your prophetic analysis of our family’s history and dynamics. How
does one, or a nation, or an international body, work toward peace? How does one
rein in conflict, or even refuse to engage in conflict, as I saw you so many
times. I also recall hearing your sister, Eleanor, speaking proudly that she and
all the four children in your family never witnessed a conflict between your
mother and your father, the kindergarten teacher and Baptist preacher, respectively.
How often have I silently not only bemoaned such obvious hypocrisy and
repression from your family, but also felt impaled between a parent who
espoused peace at any price, until he exploded, and another who incarnated
verbal and physical and emotional violence as a preferred weapon.
Who was the more frightened parent, mother whose
self-loathing terrified her, or you who feared her outright rejection and abandonment?
I really don’t know, and essentially cannot know. I can only continue an apparently
interminable pursuit of how these incidents, couched in the context of repeated
beatings, also delivered to my sister, twelve years my junior, have impacted my
life, and the lives of those whose lives have crossed paths with mine, including
three daughters, a divorced spouse and several permanently fractured
relationships.
Clearly, I hold all “authority figures” under a
microscope of judgement, permitting little if any “grace” for their stupidity,
their arrogance, their insecurities or their unjust decisions. I also am known
to have “kept my power dry” for decades early in my career, when it appeared to
me that compliance was the higher virtue to confrontation.
Finding occasions and outlets for a critical judgement
perception, especially focused on the political class, and not excluding the
hierarchy in education and in the church, seems more natural than breathing.
However, my capacity to criticise, often seering to the bone of the target, has
left many wondering at my appetite for power. Ironically, however, my intuition
has been so sharpened by my earliest experiences that inauthenticity, like a
radar gun, strikes instantly as a sign of apparent politically correct impotence leaving my mouth agape. That's when my “gut” wretches with disgust and my outbursts of anger too often bring reprisals back onto me. If anyone wishes to observe politically correct inauthenticity, hypocrisy, and back-stabbing gossip, look no further than the church.
And the most recent Republican self-emasculation is only
the latest in a long series of men who have lost their spine to a false totem
of even more false strength and muscle.
I am both peace-maker and power-monkey, (and many voices in between), raised by both
hitler and chamberlain, and often wonder if there are others of my generation
who bear the marks of such disparity and evoke the ire and suspicion of so
many, involuntarily and unconsciously most of the time.
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