Remembrance and Father…

Over the last few weeks – since before Remembrance Day, actually – I have been thinking a lot about my father. When he was alive, we were not close. In part, that was due to the years he spent in the Canadian Army in Britain and Europe during World War II. He was gone for six years, without a break. He left just a day or two before I started school, and he returned just as I became a moody adolescent. He had no idea how to deal with adolescence, and I had no idea how to relate to a Dad, since I’d had none for so long. The teen years were a strain on both of us.

During the years on my first marriage, my father and I had little to do with each other. I knew he cared about us, but he had a difficult time demonstrating that. He was much better at relating to the Grandchildren. He was warm and cuddly with them. Each of them developed a unique relationship with Grandpa.

Later in my life, during my second marriage he was much closer to me. He responded very warmly to Beatrix. They could talk by the hour. And he shared things with her. I think she reminded him of his four sisters.

I have two pictures of father in military dress, taken during the war. One was taken when he was on leave in Scotland, visiting his Uncle Archie. He is relaxed, laughing, enjoying the moment. The other picture was taken after he’d been in Europe and seen action in Holland. The picture is plain; his skin colour is darker than earlier. There is no smile on his mustached face. His eyes are penetrating. It’s an altogether sober and serious photo. No laughter there.

I have three special mementos of my Dad, who died in August of 1984. They are a skipping rope, a silver coloured dagger such as Commandos were issued in WW II, and a metal whistle, such as referees use in British Football matches. Each of them carries special meaning for me, and I have created a story around each of them, partly factual, partly fictional.

The skipping rope hung in our basement on Roanoke Street in Transcona. My Dad used that rope regularly as part of his efforts to remain fit into his old age. I don’t know when he stopped using it, but I do remember that, as a teenagers, I could my father rhythmically skipping in the basement for up to 20 minutes to a half hour, regularly. I have no idea when he stopped, but he was still doing it well into his fifties.

The whistle reminds me of my Dad as a soccer player. I heard stories of long training runs along the sand beach at Prestwick. I’ve stood on that beach. The sand in not hard, it slides under your feet. I couldn’t image a ten-mile run in that place. But it happened every Saturday when my Dad was a teenager, to keep the team’s legs in shape.

I saw my Dad use that whistle when I was in junior high school. He was asked to referee inter-high school matches in Transcona. He was the only referee. He ran up and down the field with the play, easily keeping pace with the 16 and 17 year old players. He was likely about 50 at the time. I remember being impressed that he could do that, and keep good control of the game.

The dagger he brought home from the war. At some point, although he was in the Service Corps – transport of men and supplies to the front – at some point he was involved in training men in hand-to-hand combat, such as Commandos would need. The dagger was the knife with which they would kill. It had no sharp edges; it was not a cutting knife. It was for stabbing, as in sneak up behind a sentry and put him down silently; once to the chest, or the kidneys.

In his own way, my father was a teacher. Never formally t rained, he could instruct well. He taught Jennifer to drive, for example. Did he teach Keith, of Caley? I can’t remember. He was an athlete. In his youth, he was a passionate athlete. Being forbidden to play football on Sunday was one of the reasons he got fed up with religion and left the church. (It wasn’t the only reason!) Watching hi m run as a referee, I was impressed that he was in such good shape. During the depression, the Transcona School hired my Father to “teach a class” of 25-30 year olds who returned to school because there was no work! What he did was mostly physical training, sports, something to wear them out. He managed that very well…with his third grade formal education! He could manage them (the whistle) and he could stay ahead of them physically (the skipping rope).

Each Remembrance Day I go through the same process. I remember those objects. I touch them; I replay the war stories (very few) that my Dad told. I go to the community Service, which is always very meaningful for me, no matter how badly it is done, or how horrible the homily is. I watch those young people laying wreaths, and some of the old Korean War Vets, creakily kneeling to do the same, and remember that my Dad volunteered for World War II at the age of 38, when no conscription would ever have touched him. He volunteered his life, and by implication, mine as well, and my Mother’s.

Every year tears run down my cheeks, and I remember my Father with great fondness and respect. I don’t really expect anyone else to be understand this. It just is. And…I wish I’d known him better in life. In death he has been a mentor to me, and I have felt close to him on many occasions. It is past time that I put that fact on paper.