I Remember Dad

I was only seven years old, in 1926, when my Dad was the General Superintendent of construction on the huge Sacre Coeur Hospital, in Cartierville, Quebec. I realize, now, that considering his farm upbringing and his lack of formal, higher education, Dad must have been quite a guy to attain such a responsible position. But as an impressionable child it was his mannerisms and habits that appealed to me as special and unique. To my young mind, they were distinctly his and his alone and I freely admit to a case of hero worship.

I can see him, on summer days, striding along the sidewalk, on his return from work. His left arm, carrying his suit coat, would be motionless across his stomach. His right arm would be swinging freely like a military man on parade and the roll of blueprints in his right hand resembled an officer’s swagger stick. He’d be wearing a soft, snap-brim, gray felt hat on the back of his head; a white shirt, with the sleeves folded to above the elbow. Much of his plain tie might be hidden, depending on how high the vest was buttoned.

All vests were intriguing to 7-year boys but my Dad’s was especially magical to me because it had so many pockets for fountain pens, Eversharp pencils, and the small, steel rulers with mysterious markings. But best of all, it also held both the watch fob and the always-coveted gold watch. Living in opposite pockets of the vest, the fob and the watch were connected by an umbilical cord in the form of a gold chain, which dangled on either side of the button hole, through which it passed.

I shouldn’t really say that I coveted the watch, itself; instead, I should say that I was captivated by the routine that Dad followed with it, in checking the time. It was a standard procedure, which all grown men followed. Remove watch from pocket with thumb and forefinger, hold watch in the palm, release the cover of the watch face with a thumb action on the catch, raise watch towards eye-level (while chain dangles), study dial, close cover and return watch to pocket by reversing the foregoing steps.

His watch was special to him because, it was a gift from the grateful owners of a previous construction project; a reward for excellent performance in meeting due dates in spite of seemingly overwhelming odds. It was his trophy; a tribute to his work and he wore it as proudly as a military man might wear a decoration.

I often think about Dad’s watch and how it served the other kids in our family and me as a barometer of economic fortune. During the depression, for example, the construction trade was very slow, and we experienced our share of hard times. The watch was in and out of the hockshop many times and we would notice when it was missing and we would keep quiet and be sad. Sad for ourselves surely, but I think we were more sad on Dad’s account. He always felt very badly when he was driven to such an extreme; he felt that he had failed. But he would fight back and soon reclaim his badge of honor and we would all rejoice silently for him.

His vest was magical for me, also, for reasons other than the watch. It was because the wearer could project a very wise, all-knowing attitude by simply sliding his thumbs under the narrow part of the vest, just below the shoulder, and letting each hand dangle or letting the fingers dance rhythmically to some personal orchestration. I often saw my father adopt that posture and I never considered it to be showing-off. Instead I was always proud of him and affectations such as that only increased my respect and admiration.

My Dad was a pipe smoker who just could not look right smoking a cigarette. By contrast, many men are cigarette smokers who cannot smoke a pipe. They often say, “I tried a pipe but it burns my tongue.” And while trying, many men look ridiculous. They just don’t have the style and their efforts at being natural with a pipe in their mouth do not succeed.

Dad would try to hold a cigarette in his mouth but the smoke would always curl up into his eyes and bring tears. I had the notion, when I was young, that smoking a cigarette was the only thing in the world that my father could not do.

I always watched and shared, with him, the enjoyment of his pipe. I was captivated by the way he held it between his teeth, and how he could talk without removing it from his mouth. But if the actual smoking was a great wonder and delight to me, it was the ritual he followed before lighting-up that really held my attention. No one else in the whole wide world followed such a routine (or so I thought) and as a young boy, I sat and watched in reverence as one views the ceremony of a priest at the altar preparing the thurible for the burning of incense.

Dad smoked a tobacco called Edgeworth, which was available in loose, ready-rubbed style or in the sliced pipe-tobacco form. Usually he used the sliced variety, which came in small cans with a hinged top. The slices were about the size of a stick of chewing gum and two slices were needed to fill an average sized pipe. In order to prepare the tobacco for the pipe, he would place two slices in the palm of his left hand and slowly crumble the slices with the heel of his right hand. When it was suitably ground, he would carefully pack the bowl of the pipe performing the entire ritual slowly and deliberately. He would light a wooden match by dragging the head along the seat of the pants, and then raise the flame to the pipe. As the flame was applied, he would breathe a series of short, in-and-out puffs, providing a draft for the lighting process. When the smoldering tobacco started to rise slightly in the bowl, the index finger of his right hand packed it down, with a professional touch before the flame was applied again. This tamping ensured a good “draw” and a long smoke. For some reason his finger never seemed to get burned and this wondrous action was another part of the appeal. Sometimes, for my further enjoyment, he would blow several smoke rings and I would plead for more until his mouth was hot and sore.

Like most men of his generation, he always carried a penknife in his pants pocket. He used the knife to scrape and clean his pipe, but he also used it in other ways. For example, he was a real craftsman when sharpening a pencil. In the days when I attended school, no one had a mechanical sharpener at home, and I’m sure that the quality of my writing and my homework generally would have been pretty bad, through the years, if I had not been able to rely on the world’s best, human pencil-sharpener. Pencils sharpened by my Dad were works of art, and I was proud of them. The older I get, the more I realize that he always lived up to his motto, “If a thing is worth doing, it’s worth doing right.”

Dad had other talents too and a quiet sense of humor. For example, he would do the carving at Sunday dinner and he could expertly slice pork, chicken, fish, or even baloney, according to the individual requests from around the table. And he could carve all these various meats of this from a roast of beef. The routine never got stale for the children and my mother went along with the gag, year after year, relishing the fun and confident of the love of family that she knew inspired the nonsense.

Another of his great talents was his ability to make the best cocoa ever prepared. I was lucky to have learned the secrets of this recipe from him and I am able to make quite a good cup of cocoa. True, there is not much demand these days, but it is good to have such hidden talents, in reserve, so to speak. Let me record here, for posterity, that the recipe includes a good pinch of salt and a generous pat of butter, each stirred in at the appropriate time.

I remember many things about my Dad; how sad he could be during tough times; how lonely he was after Mum died; how he would play solitaire by the hour and how you could tell that he was thinking about many things as he played. Whenever he was quietly concentrating, he had a unique habit of grinding his back teeth, causing his lower jaw to move slightly from side to side. During this activity, he pursed his lips, so that, anyone who did not know him would think that he was angry. Those of us who did know him, realized, that he was not angry but that whatever subject he was engrossed in, would be getting a thorough going-over.

Dad played the violin by ear and he also loved to sing. I’m sure that I inherited my love of music from him but unfortunately very little of his talent.

For some unaccountable reason there was an Easter Sunday tradition in our house. Dad always prepared a family breakfast of bacon, sausages and eggs, and while cooking he always sang. It was always the same amusing song entitled, “The Preacher and the Bear.” I can still hear the rich baritone voice and I even remember the words:

“A preacher went a-hunting, while on a Sunday morn,
It was against his religion, but he took his gun along.
He shot himself some very fine quail and a little measly hare,
And on his way returning home, met a great big grizzly bear.”

The lyrics tell about how the preacher climbed a tree and the bear followed. The great line of the song comes when the preacher, professing that he’s a sinner, seeks divine intervention and says:

“Oh Lord, if you can’t help me,
For heaven’s sake don’t you help that bear.”

Years later, bandleader Phil Harris made a record of the song but somehow we preferred Dad’s rendition. No one knows how our Easter morning tradition ever got started, but we all loved it.

I always sang and clowned in the morning for my family while I was busy setting out cereals and juices and making toast. It was my way of distracting the children and it was a successful ploy . . . when they were young.

When these same youngsters became teenagers my light-hearted efforts and my songs were actually scorned. As teenagers my kids were particularly grumpy in the early morning and that’s when they suggested that maybe there was something wrong with me. In their view, nobody could or should be cheerful and actually sing at breakfast.

I didn’t resent their comments; in fact I took it as a compliment because they made me feel that I am like my Dad . . . at least in one respect.