My father was born a bastard child. A lifetime of searching revealed that his father was likely British, his mother Native. He lingered in an adoption ward almost two years before he was claimed by a doctor and his socialite wife. Two years later they adopted a little girl to round out their perfect family.
Most of what I know of my father's early history came to me via my mother -- my father would never talk about it. It could have been, but wasn't a happy childhood, although my father was fortunate in some ways -- he'd been adopted by a family that was feelthy stinkin' rich. Most of his childhood was split among the cities of Toronto, Winnipeg, and Regina. Summers were spent in Saskatchewan's Fort Qu'Appelle Valley -- the place where the earth meets the sky. Years later, he brought us to visit that place and we marveled that his family had not only owned several homes in three cities, but could also lay claim to their very own beach -- on three sides.
Dad grew up in the lap of luxury. A picture of him taken during the depression displays a young boy riding a brand new tricycle, a white terrier perched in the basket up front, a nursemaid standing at attention nearby. What a far cry from my mother's formative existence! If there was one element they shared in common it was that their fathers were brutes. Rumor had it that my grandmother was a lesbian and this was what had precipitated the adoptions, the marriage had never been consummated. Years later, another rumor would rise to the surface that my grandfather had been a closeted homosexual. Who knows? What is known is that my grandfather was a surgeon, and in the days of my father's youth he performed so many (unmedicated) surgeries on my father's penis, Dad was pronounced sterile at the age of 18 due to the resulting scar tissue. Nice guy, my grandfather.
The relationship my father had with his parents was never a close one, he'd been raised more by the hired help in the kitchen than his own parents. Years later, when Dad was attending McMaster University he wrote a heartfelt pain-filled letter to his father, lamenting the lack of intimacy between them. His father returned the letter with all the spelling errors circled in red, never offering any other form of reply. It's not surprising that my father had never felt good enough, forever marked by his bastard status. One evening, when he was still a young man, the disparity of that status built to a dramatic climax.
Dad's parents were having a dinner party, one of the hoity-toity kind. Dad had been told he could bring a date but not one of those "common" college girls he seemed to fancy so much who didn't know what fork to use at the table. Dad didn't give a shit about forks. He cared about people and in his eyes, the women he dated were all remarkably good people. Still, he selected his date with extra care that evening. His parents pleasure was apparent when he showed up with a vivacious and charming young woman on his arm that nght. She was the hit of the party. Gracious. Cultured. She fit right in. She even knew what fork to use! They stayed through dinner and then dad excused himself to escort his date home. When he returned, his parents and their guests were eager to know -- who was she? Where had she come from? How did they meet? Finally, their son had brought home a date that was befitting their social standing and gentile breeding. His parents were near swooning with pleasure and peacock pride. It was at that point that my father informed his parents and all their guests that she was a hooker he'd hired for the evening. Ha! What a shit-disturber he was.
They disowned him as a result of his humiliating actions, but I still value the classic lesson he taught me: Never judge a book by its cover. Being a good person has nothing to do with the kind of car you drive, the house you own, the school you attended, or which side of the tracks you grew up on. It's all about who you are. It's all about character.
From there, my father drifted. He went to Chicago and hung with some Mafia types. He spent a short stint in the army. He ran a restaurant. He joined a carnival and traveled across Canada. He started his own business. And he drank. The man drank like no one I'd ever heard of before. He lived that way for about 25 years until he fell in love with three little girls and their mother, at the age of 42.
He was absent from the lives of his family of origin for 35 years. He didn't even speak with his sister whom he loved. When he went back all those years later his father was dead and his mother could no longer remember who he was. He and his sister remained in touch though, up until his death a few years ago. At the point that he died, he and mom had been divorced for 20 years. Our relationship had grown estranged as a result, but I'd made my peace with him. As he struggled for breath on the sofa of his home, I put pen to paper and wrote him a poem. A tribute to this man who had come from such a loveless and brutal background, yet had been a gentle and loving man. It's clee-shay-ish, but it doesn't matter. Shhhh. This one's for my Dad. Listen. . .
ONCE I SAW A MIGHTY OAK
STANDING STRONG AND TRUE
AND SCATTERED ROUND ITS STURDY ROOTS
THERE, TINY ACORNS GREW
AND THROUGH THE DISTANCE,
SHINING TRUE
AMONG THE CLOVER AND THE DEW
SOFTLY, SILENT THROUGH THE GREEN
LOVE FILLED THE SPACES
IN BETWEEN
ONCE I SAW A MIGHTY RIVER
STRETCHED FROM SEA TO SEA
AND FROM ALONG ITS FAR-FLUNG SHORES
THE TRIBUTARIES LEAD
BUT THROUGH THE DISTANCE,
SHINING TRUE
ALONG THE BANKS WHERE SALMON FLEW
RUSHING FORWARD, SWIFT AND CLEAN
LOVE FILLED THE SPACES
IN BETWEEN
ONCE I SAW A MIGHTY EAGLE
SOAR BEYOND THE SKIES
AWAY FROM RIVERS, ROCKS AND TREES
OR TENDER, LAST GOOD-BYES
YET THOUGH THE DISTANCE,
SHINING THROUGH
AGAINST A SKY OF COBALT BLUE
SUNLIGHT TRACED A GRACEFUL WING
LOVE FILLED THE SPACES
JUST THE SAME
SO IN YOUR PASSING
I'LL NOT CRY
I KNOW THE TRUTH
LOVE DOESN'T DIE
IT'S CRAFTED BY A GREATER HAND
BEYOND THE REACH OF ALL TIME'S SAND
AND THERE IS NOTHING THAT CAN STAND
AGAINST THE WILL OF HEART'S COMMAND
LOVE WILL LINGER
AND REMAIN
FROM ME TO YOU
AND BACK AGAIN
IT MOVES UNBROKEN
AND UNSEEN
TO FILL THE SPACES . . .
