Happy Birthday Dad, Where Ever You May Be

Yesterday would have been my dad’s birthday. If memory serves me correctly, he’d have been 93 years old. He and I had a bit of a complicated relationship while I was growing up. It got better as I got older and we found common ground in Legion membership.

I pressed him into joining when I joined. He was the veteran but had never had any interest in the Legion. I decided to join and presented him with two membership forms since I needed his service number to prove I was a veteran’s child.

He didn’t get involved though. The Legion had a reputation for being a drinking place. It took him hearing me talking about various projects the Legion was involved in for him to realize that the guys drinking in the clubroom were just the tip of the iceberg. He would help out at Remembrance time with the presentations to school children.

Dad was a veteran of WW2, something I didn’t actually know about until I was a teenager. I was putting clothes away one day and came across his medals in little boxes tucked into a corner of his drawer. I asked my mother about them and she, rather offhandedly, informed me they were from ‘the war’. He had never spoken of being in ‘the war’.

As a Legion member, I came to learn that most of the veterans, especially the overseas guys didn’t talk about ‘the war’. When I joined there were veterans from WW1, WW2 and Korea who were active members. It didn’t really matter which war they served in, it was still ‘the war’.

Dad had a temper, a very volatile temper. We often never knew when it was going to erupt, we just knew it was going to. I recently asked my uncle if dad had a temper before having served in the war. He said he didn’t recall him having much of a temper, that it seemed to come later.

With what we know now, dad likely had PTSD. A volatile temper can be an indicator, it tends to reflect continued hyper-awareness. As he got older, that temper wasn’t seen as often.

Like most veterans, dad rarely talked about his time overseas. He’s told some stories over the years but they were usually times he found inspirational or amusing. He was raised in a family of faith, something that stayed with him throughout his life.

A couple of the experiences he shared were to him testaments that life had more for him to do and he was going to come home from war.

One story was about him being pinned to the top of a ridge by sniper fire, his partner seeing dirt being kicked up all around dad. When it was all over, they were both astounded to find, none of the sniper’s shots had even knicked dad. The other story involved he and his unit sleeping in a house they thought was behind enemy lines after several days on patrol and waking up to find the other half of the house had been blown away while they slept.

Calls as close as that, I think I’d find my faith stronger than ever.

Another was about their unit padre, Padre Roland, that one of his unit mates approached to warn him not to sit near a window reading as he could get hit by sniper fire. The Padre calmly looked at the lad and said quietly, “lad, if the good Lord wants me, he’s taking me no matter where I’m sitting”. He was left to read.

Dad served in the Irish Regiment of Canada. Part of the 5th Brigade, they landed in Sicily in November 1943 and fought their way up through Italy then were sent into North-west Europe until the end of the war.

Returning to Toronto after the end of the war, dad found employment and picked up where he left off. Needless to say, war changes anyone but, in those days, it was expected for the guys to return and get on with their lives

He met my mother and clearly fell in love, marrying her on September 17, 1949. They moved into an unfinished house in Toyneville, a small community which has long since become part of Pickering, Ontario. Dad taught himself how to do plumbing and electrical work as well as how to build, in the process of finishing that home. My mother wasn’t particular patient about living in an unfinished home with a young child. We often heard about that ‘god-damn home in Toyneville’.

My parents kept moving east of Toronto as the family grew, eventually buying a house in Orono where the family of five kids grew up and attended school. My earliest memories of dad he was working for a company called Vachon cakes out of Quebec. He was a driver salesman for them and one of their better ones.

Dad used to do paint and body work on cars in the garage on his time off. He had a reputation for doing quality work. I remember one of my cars that dad did a body job on. He used a catalyst hardener in the paint and when it dried the surface was so smooth the car never needed washing, a good rain had it looking like it had just been washed. When it later became my rust bucket, it still shone like the day it was painted which was actually pretty funny for a rust bucket.

Dad and I were a lot alike personality wise and we often clashed. My mother used to say that she didn’t see me get into a temper until he and I would clash. And we clashed often. Stubborn and outspoken, when our outside voices engaged it was not a pretty sight. In between the battles, an uneasy truce would exist.

My parent’s desire to own their own business brought us into the area where I continue to live. They bought a country general store about ten miles north of where I now live. I worked for them for a few years before I decided it was time to have my own life and I went to college to take an Electro-Mechanical program with a speciality in Robotics. It was a two year program which I took in one calendar year and finished second in the class.

I was hired as a setup mechanic at a pharmaceutical firm in Toronto. I heard from customers that dad used to brag that he had two boys and three mechanics in the family. Both of my brothers are certified automotive mechanics. He never ever told me this but I took from the bragging that he was proud of what I was doing.

As I got older the tension between us dissipated and we got to know each other better. Dad wasn’t particularly expressive, so his actions would need to speak more than him. I tend to take after him that way. I also tend to judge people more on their actions than their words. When the two don’t match up, I keep my distance.

My husband died in August 1989. He and I had been deeply involved in the Legion and of course we had spent every Remembrance Day together. By then the parents had sold the store and retired to Lakefield, about an hour away. As Remembrance day 1989 approached, I wasn’t really looking forward to that first one without him, like most firsts after a death.

Imagine my shock when I arrived at the branch that morning and there was dad, in Legion dress and wearing his medals! We spent every Remembrance Day together until his death almost ten years ago. Then there was the night that dad was present at the Honours & Awards dinner where I was presented with my Life Membership. The honour of a Life Membership was one thing, the sight of dad and the look of pride on his face, I will never forget.

After my mother died in March 2000, I started asking dad to accompany me to Legion events like conventions. Dad never really showed his age. When he was 80, he looked a lot like a guy in his late 60s, early 70s.

The first convention I asked him to accompany to was also the first time I had been seen with someone else at a Legion convention and of course, people didn’t know dad. I introduced him to several people over the course of the first day of business. After the business session was finished that day we went out to dinner and then returned to the host branch for the evening’s entertainment.

I was told later that when we entered the room, a fellow sitting at one of the tables turned to others at the table and remarked he was unaware that I’d remarried or was seeing anyone. One of the others at the table started laughing and asked if it didn’t seem a bit odd that my ‘boyfriend’ looked a lot like me? The guy shrugged and then went red when he was told that my ‘boyfriend’ was in fact my father.

It wasn’t the last time that mistake was made. Dad just didn’t look all that old. Neither did my mother show her age. It was not uncommon for me to be mistake for her sister which often left me wondering just how old I looked.

There is many other stories I could tell but I think by now, you get the picture. While our early years were rocky, the bond as he got older was strong. The dad who passed away almost ten years ago showed himself to be a deeply loving man of strong faith. He lived that faith not through preaching it but just by doing what he felt it called him to do. I strive to continue to be like him.

So Dad, where ever your spirit may soar, I hope you are happy and free. Happy birthday.

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