My Dad. His Story.

This is a cool story, Ms J. It's all true.

It was early spring in 1999 when my father began to ponder, in earnest, his mortality. He was fond of reminding us of it.

"I won't be around forever, you know," he'd say. "I'm seventy-seven years old."

One day he came to me with an idea.

"I'm gonna write a book," he declared. "My story. My biography. That way, I'll still be around even after I'm gone. Whadda ya think of that?"

I told him I thought it was a brilliant idea and offered to help a little if he needed it. He smiled and held up his palm.

"No. No thanks. It's my Life. I'll write it."

A few weeks later, I was visiting Mum and Dad. I asked how the book was coming.

"Well I've done a lot of thinking about it," he said. "But I don't quite know where to start."

"Where were you born, Dad?" I asked.

He said he was born in Baldwin, Ontario.

"At home?" I asked.

He told me yes, at home.

"Your birthday's in January," I said. "I'll bet it was cold that day."

"Cold as a witch's tit, probably. It was early in the morning, I think."

Thus was conceived the first line of my father's memoirs.

I was born on a cold and frosty morning in January 1922 at home in Baldwin, Ontario.

Over the next few months, Dad worked on his story. Mum said he spent a lot of time at it. And one day that summer, after lunch, he took my hand.

"C'mere, boy," he said. "I've got something to show you."

Mum was smiling as I followed Dad down the steps to the family room. He crossed to the coffee table and returned proudly with a stack of papers.

"Here," he said, handing me the papers. "Here's my story. It's a hundred pages give or take. There's likely a lot I've missed, but I've racked my brain and that's about all I can remember."

I leafed through the pages, Ms J. It was quite a ... Well, it was a lot alright. There were over a hundred dog-eared pages of 8.5 x 14 inch foolscap. Each page was filled on both sides, handwritten and single-spaced. The ink was blue. And black. Much of it was in pencil. Every page contained red circles and lines with arrows pointing to tiny notes in the margins. Some of the page numbers had been amended three or four times.

"Read it," he said. "Tell me what you think."

So I did. And you know what, Ms J? It was good! No, there were no great surprises. He's not gay. He never confessed to any bastard children, or illicit love affairs. He never killed anyone and buried them out behind the barn. But his story was quite enjoyable. It just needed a bit of polishing to clean up the spelling and grammar errors and to help it flow more evenly. I volunteered to type it and print it for him. He was pleased to accept my offer.

I spent many hours on the project over the next few weeks and often phoned my father to ask for clarification on some point or other. Once, when I was there for a visit, he asked me if I could add pictures to his book. When I told him yes, I suppose I could, he produced a shoe box holding perhaps two hundred old black and white snapshots.

"Good, then," he said. "Put these in it."

A discussion ensued then concerning the type and scope of his project.

"Do you want a picture book, Dad? Or do you want to tell your story in words?"

"Both," was his answer although eventually we came to a reasonable compromise.

Anyway, Ms J, by the end of that summer, I had edited and typed and scanned and printed til finally I had what I called a manuscript. I put it in a Duo-Tang folder and gave it to dear ol' Dad. He was absolutely thrilled. Dad curses sometimes when he's thrilled. Or when he's surprised. Or when he's angry. Or sad. Or sometimes when he's really happy.

"Well I'll be dipped in shit!" he declared. "Look at what Dale's done, Ma! That's pretty good. That's just pretty goddamn good!"

Mum hates when he curses, Ms J. She's hated it for sixty years. Sometimes though, just between you and me, it makes me laugh. And Mum loves her man, still. A lot.

"Wilf!" she said. "Can't you just say thank you and be done with it? Do you have to talk like that?"

Dad lowered his voice but not his enthusiasm and continued.

"Well, it is. It's pretty goddamn good. Look here. He put pictures in it and everything."

He looked at me then, Ms Journal, and smiled, and I felt so proud of myself. It reminded me of when I was a boy and he'd hug me and kiss me and tell me what a good boy I was. He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it.

"You done good, son. Goddammit. You done good!"

He was so pleased, in fact, that he ordered some twenty-five copies of the book for distribution among family and friends. My brother and four sisters all received a copy, each one signed by the author. I treasure mine, as I'm sure the others all do.

But the story doesn't end there. (I know. It's a long post, isn't it?)

Six months later, I was in bed one night thinking, as usual, about my dad and his proud accomplishment. And a thought entered my mind. A crazy thought. Or was it?
I wondered if the National Library of Canada would be interested in Dad's story. The next morning, I called them in Ottawa. After telling my story to several people, I finally spoke to the right one. It was a woman named Plouffe. Marianne Plouffe.

"Sir," she said in her French-Canadian accent, "we would be delighted to 'ave your fodder's book 'ere. If you sen' us two copy, we'll pay da postage."

"Dis is living 'istory," she explained. "To hus, dis is gold."

Can you believe it, Ms J? My father's story is now part of our National Archives! One copy is hermetically sealed and will forever be part of Canada's story "as long as there is a Canada." The other copy is available for lending through local public libraries for the purpose of historical research.

Dad wanted to tell his story. He told me he was afraid that he'd be forgotten after he died. So he wrote his story. And look what's happened. The National Library of Canada has two copies. They even assigned it an ISBN number.

"Who's your dad?" people ask when I tell them this story. "Is he famous or something?"

My heart fills with pride.

"He is to me," I say. "He's my dad."


My best and truest friends, Ms Journal.
This photo was taken last week when Dad turned 87.

***

"Please, Dad. For Me."

I don't quite know what to say here anymore, Ms J. I feel that I cannot speak my true heart. And that's precisely what I've done here these past four years or so. I've documented my Life - the good times and bad - and shared my most intimate feelings about it. I've found support here from various readers at various times, and I've also found criticisms. Some were helpful. Some were just plain hurtful. But lately, I've been feeling rather muzzled. And that's not a good thing, Ms Journal. That seems to defeat the entire purpose of this blog. I began to write here long ago through my desire to share my successes and failures with an anonymous audience. I never imagined it might be read by anyone about whom I wrote. Was it myopic? Probably. But I have no regrets. I make no apologies. I spoke the Truth, my Truth, the way I saw it.

I spent a day with Meagan recently. We visited a Wal-Mart store in a town near her home. We bought a couple of t-shirts and a jacket. She found an aquarium as well, and we bought some fish and accessories for it. I hadn't gotten her much for Christmas. It had been months since I last saw her, and Lord, how I missed her. We talked about lots of things and eventually the conversation came round to this blog.

"Dad," she said. "Promise me something. Promise me you won't write about Mum anymore. Ever. She freaked out the last time. She freaks out and calls you names and I try to defend you and then me and Mum start fighting, and ... Well, it's not good. I love you both. It puts me in the middle somehow and it feels pretty crappy. So promise me you won't write about her anymore. Please, Dad. For me."

I really don't know why she finds my Life so interesting, Ms J. I don't know why she reads this blog. But she does and I'm powerless to stop her. That's a fact. I bother myself that she knows so much about me. I wish ...

Well, anyway ...

That's about it for today, I guess. I'll need some time to process it all, Ms J. I'll need a few days or more to decide how to respond now that I know who reads these words. Do I continue to share my heart here or simply grind out bland pap void of any real emotion? Does it matter? Should it matter? Do I care? Should I?

I will keep my promise to my daughter. I will do it. For her.

***

Struck Dumb

I've been silent these past few days, haven't I? I'm afraid I haven't much to say. Once in a while, I get a flash of brilliance and promise myself I'll write about it here. But then Life happens and I forget what I wanted to write about. I suppose I ought to leave myself a note.

It's Dad's birthday next Tuesday. I plan to drive up and see him. I bought a card for him this morning and shed a tear as I looked for just the right one. I couldn't decide whether to get him a mushy one that reminds him of how much he's taught me and how I'll never be able to repay him, or one that simply says Happy Birthday. I chose the latter, Ms J. Surely he knows how much I love him. I've told him often enough. I hug my dad and tell him I love him every time I see him.

But he'll be 87 on Tuesday. And I don't know how many more birthdays he'll have.

I wish he lived closer. I'd see him every day.

***

Something Lighter

At work the other day, Jimmy pointed at a list on the wall in the engineer’s room.

“Look at this! You’ve won something.”

It’s true, Ms J. There was a list of ten names under the heading “Christmas Draw Winners.” My name was there in the middle.

“I wonder what I’ve won?” I asked.

Jim said he didn’t know.

“A frozen turkey maybe. They gave away turkeys one year.”

On Friday, I went to the TMC and ventured upstairs to the office area where I found a secretary. Leslie is her name. She's really nice.

“Hi Leslie,” I said. “I hear I’ve won something. What’s this all about?”

“Oh right,” she said. “Your name was among those drawn for a gift certificate.”

“But I didn’t enter a draw,” I said. “I’m confused. How did I win?”

She reached into a drawer in her desk and pulled out a gift card from a local grocery store. $25. She smiled and handed it to me.

“Every year at Christmas time we put all the engineer’s names in a box and draw ten winners. We used to give away frozen turkeys but some of them thawed out before they were picked up. It was a mess. So this year, we’ve given gift certificates instead.”

Prizes, Ms J. CN fires people just to be cruel. Here at VIA, they give away prizes. Just to be kind.

Thank you, God. Thank you for delivering me from slavery at CN. I’m really happy here at VIA.

***

Too Much Christmas

Hello, Ms J. You're probably wondering where I've been. Why no New Year's post? What's become of my daily reports and musings, lately? There was a time when you could rely on something new here. Every day brought a new incite into my daily challenges and struggles. So what's happened, then? Have I forsaken you, Ms J? Left you for another woman? Fallen ill? No. None of that. I'm fine, really. Just tired. Exhausted.

First, let me tell you how tired I am of Christmas, how sick I am of it.

Christmas is, for us Christians, the most holy day of the calendar. It's a special day. It's the day we remember and celebrate the birth of Christ, the "reason for the season." Christmas comes but once a year. That keeps it feeling special. But lately, it seems, the season lasts a full two months. Retailers start replacing Halloween decorations with Christmas ones in their stores as soon as October closes. Witches and ghosts flee the shop windows and Santa arrives immediately with his reindeer to take their places.

Personally, Christmas begins with a growing unease about having to venture out into the bowels of retail Hell to select useless gewgaws for people who don't need them. These "gifts" must be wrapped and stored until the obligatory social gatherings where the noise of crowds and kids and family and ...

I sound like Ebenezer Scrooge, don't I? I don't care.

This year, I had Christmas at least four times: I entertained my siblings and their families at my home. I participated in a Christmas dinner at Colleen's mum's place with about twenty adults and kids. I spent Christmas morning with Colleen and Ivy. And only yesterday, I celebrated again with Colleen's family, watching while grandkids opened gifts from aunts and uncles and grandparents.

I don't know about you, Ms J, but to me, there's nothing special about a Christmas that lasts two months and is celebrated four times. It's no longer something to be enjoyed, but rather something to be endured.

I'm sick of it. I'm completely exhausted. I rarely sleep in my own bed anymore. I'm here in Windsor or beside Colleen in her bed. (She got a new bed for Christmas, by the way, so it's not as uncomfortable as it used to be.) It just seems to me that I've been running non-stop for months now. I have no time to blog here. No time for my personal journal. I even e-mailed the bloody thing to myself in the hope of accessing it while I'm in Windsor. But this morning, when I tried to open it, I discovered that the hotel computers have an older version of MS Word and my journal won't open. Always busy, I am, but accomplishing nothing.

My eyes are half-closed. My head feels fuzzy. My arms and legs are heavy. And speaking of heavy ... I can't imagine how much weight I've gained lately.

Blah. Christmas is over, finally, and I say good riddance. My New Year's resolution ought to be to regain control of my Life. To lose weight. To slow down. To take rest and rediscover my calm centre. I ought to resolve to find Life's rhythm again.

And I won't find it by dashing off madly in all directions.

***