late?” I asked innocently.
“No!” he retorted. “I’m going to work. If I keep reading, I’ll never get to work at all.”
Dad’s interests were far-ranging. He owned the complete eight-volume set of Bernard McFadden’s Encyclopedia of Naturopathic Remedies. 'Mention an ache or pain and Dad could suggest the cure. Talk about air travel and he could launch into the history of flight and finish with whatever exciting advancements were on the drawing boards now. He kept track of anthropological and archeological discoveries and developments in technology and mechanics. He read the newspaper from cover to cover every day; he read construction, mechanics, health, and science magazines, as well as anything else he could get his hands on. More importantly, he remembered everything he read. This was the early 1940s. There was no nuclear physics, stem cell research, or any of the myriad highly technical scientific specialties that now exist. Dad knew the answers to all the questions that touched our lives. As far as Mom, Bobby, or I were concerned, he knew everything.
Dad grew up in the era of the self-made man. Men like Henry Ford started with nothing but determination and ingenuity and became fabulous success stories. Ahearn, Bell, Howe, Marconi, and others who invented things or used their creativity to think of new ways to use existing things were setting themselves apart from the crowd. In fact, at that time most of Canada’s new wealth was generated by inventors and entrepreneurs working alone. It was possible to go from having nothing to having it all, and you could do it solo. Dad saw himself in that league.
Dad’s good nature was magnetic. The moment he came in the door each day after work, he would sing out “I’m home!” and everybody would run to say hello. He was such a cheerful, optimistic person, the room brightened whenever he entered.
Many of our car rides included a sing-along. In a good strong voice Dad would belt out a robust beginning to a song and we’d all join in, but before long the song would falter for lack of words. Just before it gave its last gasp, Dad would loop it back to the beginning, drawing us with him, and round we’d go again, with great gusto. In that way, one song lasted the duration of a trip. “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” was a favourite. Dad sang it to alleviate Mom’s yearning for England. At first that pleased her, but after years of the loop treatment, he needed only to sing the first line to elicit groans of despair from her.
I thought Dad was not only the smartest man alive, but also the most patient, kind, and all-round wonderful. He never lost his temper, never raised his voice except in laughter or song. He was not critical; he focused on the good. He was observant. If he noticed that you weren’t happy he’d comment on it out loud, so everyone knew what everybody else was feeling. I remember one spring when Mom spent day after day pacing irritably back and forth in front of the living room window, concentrating deeply on thoughts she wasn’t sharing, acting very much like a caged, angry animal. Bobby and I cringed. Finally Dad declared, “It’s spring. Your mother has had enough of this home life. She’s restless to get on the road again.”
Of course he was right. Mom was a performer, an entertainer, a star. Domestic chores were always a struggle. Her Sunday roasts were magnificent, but weekday meals confounded her. Fried Spam or hamburger patties with boiled potatoes made frequent appearances at our table. She tried to be more adventurous, but those attempts yielded little success. Once she slaved away all afternoon over some “mock duck” concoction gleaned from a magazine: in reality it was hammered flank steak, tough as shoe leather, rolled around bread stuffing. Too polite to criticize, we feigned delight and struggled to saw our way through it.
Vegetables in my home were mashed potatoes, canned peas, canned corn, or canned lima beans. I learned to detest them all, save the potatoes. Dessert was always pudding or canned fruit. No cakes or cookies ever came out from Mom’s oven. She never learned to bake.
But then, what would you expect from a dancer-cum-motorcyclist? Surely it was not a future of domestic bliss that attracted my mother to my father.
Anyway, my mother had lots of talents in other aspects of domestic life. She certainly was good at sewing. After she fought her way through her first project, living room drapes, there was no stopping her. She made all kinds of clothing, from cowboy shirts to tailored suits. And nothing looked homemade.
She played piano surprisingly well. She taught herself to read music, and eventually between hard work and her exceptional ear for music she was able play even complicated arrangements of popular or classical pieces. Rachmaninoff’s Prelude, Rustle of Spring, Deep Purple, and the boogie-woogie version of Flight of the Bumble-Bee come to mind.
She read voraciously, mostly fiction, especially science fiction. And she was a great storyteller. I remember once leaving the house just as my friend Shirley arrived. I explained I was on my way out and Shirley said, “Oh, that’s okay. I really came to visit your mother anyway. I was hoping she’d tell me one of her stories.”
Mom was good at handling money. When they travelled with the globe she always managed to surreptitiously sneak some money aside. At the end of the year she would have quite a little nest egg. But it was not for herself. Sooner or later Dad would find himself in a financial bind, and, to his relief, out would pop the secret stash. In Hamilton, she ran the household on rents from the apartments upstairs, and she could always manage to accumulate a little private cache of money. Come some unforeseen expense, we would be rescued again.
Dad was quick to give Mom credit for her ability to come to our rescue. But he must have thought the money came by magic, for after they stopped using the globe and we no longer had rental apartments, Dad still came to her, hat in hand, for unexpected expenses like income tax, and he seemed mystified when she had nothing to give. Surely only my father would find income tax to be an unexpected expense year after year.
Mom was around seventeen when she met Dad; he was eight years older, handsome, and a world traveller. Mom was always his biggest fan. She could disagree vociferously with Dad, but if anyone else tried, she would spring to his defence. And you could see, day in and day out, how happy she was in her life with him. They constantly showed each other affection, laughed together a lot, and obviously preferred being in each other’s company.
They talked everything over; Dad valued Mom’s opinion. And always, throughout their lives, they arranged to do some things together. In Hamilton they had their own small street motorcycles, and on many evenings they would go for a spin together at dusk, purring down the quiet side streets of Hamilton. They cherished their time alone.
However, they were not always lovebirds. They had fierce arguments, but the fierceness was all on Mom’s part. She had a fiery temper. When something displeased her, she’d rant and rave, while Dad, always the peace-maker, murmured in the background, “There, there Mildred.” Suddenly she would announce that she was leaving, cram some clothes into a suitcase, and storm out of the house and down the street. Dad would follow, imploring her to return. Bobby and I would tremble. Eventually, they would return, silently unpack the suitcase, and spend some private time together. After that, peace and happiness would reign once more.
When I was an adult Mom once confided in me about these episodes. “I got sick and tired of packing. I knew I’d soon be unpacking again. Eventually I stopped packing altogether. I just left. Once I stormed out of the house, marched along Main Street, and got on a streetcar. The door closed and then Bob rushed up to the glass door and started rapping on it,” she told me. “I urged the conductor, ‘Don’t let him on! Don’t let him on!’ Bob kept rapping. The poor conductor didn’t know what to do. He said, ‘Lady, I can’t just ignore a customer. I’ve got to let him on.’ Eventually I gave in, he let Bob on, then we got off the streetcar together and walked home, holding hands. I guess the people on the streetcar thought we were crazy.”
Mom once told me another suitcase story. She and Dad were in
