A Chequered Career
My widowed father, now
89 and living in an assisted living facility in Niagara, has had an interesting
life, right from the start.
First of all, his
mother was probably not his mother. She was a grand Toronto lady to whom the
concept of giving birth was as remote as climbing a mountain. No, his mother
was probably a loyal family retainer known as Auntie.
In the depression, his
father, an insurance adjuster, lost his job and went to work on the docks at
the bottom of Yonge Street as a stevedore. His grand mother came down several
notches and worked as a telephone operator at the King Edward Hotel, where she
wore white gloves because she thought the equipment was dirty..
Later, after his
father died, dad quit high school to work as an organist to support his mother
and brother. He met (and played for) Fats Waller once, and Fats played some
Barrelhouse Blues for him.
Never religious, but
always a friend of the clergy, dad was to later count Archbishops and Cardinals
among his friends. An interested bishop helped get him into the Royal
Conservatory despite his lack of a high school diploma. His natural gift for
the keyboard, powered by his long slender fingers, became even more
accomplished.
He went to war as soon
as he could, six feet four inches tall and one hundred and thirty pounds. Unfit
for the front, he was posted to the Army Bureau of Current Affairs in London, where he
lectured war brides on what to expect when they arrived in Canada. The
Archbishop of Canterbury was a friend, and he played the organ at Westminster
Abbey.
He attended Weekends
at country houses with Smart People and generally had a ‘good war’. His only
casualty was a case of gastritis brought on in Ireland on leave from eating too
many fresh eggs (then rationed in Britain).
After the war, he went
to work for Paddy Conklin, the famous showman, as his driver, This made him an
honourary “Carny” and he was also Paddy’s “strategy man”, cruising the Midway to
settle disputes between the carnies.
Later, he worked for a
man who made inflatable garages and boats. I remember an inflatable hut in our
front yard. The man offered him 10% commission and 90% salary, or 20%
commission and 80% salary. Dad asked for 100% commission, no salary, and
promptly sold the government all the inflatable liferafts for the new aircraft
carrier Bonaventure.
Soon, he was doing
what he was born to do, selling pipe organs. He traveled North America, and
later the world, entertaining Bishops and Monsignors and other clerics. He knew
what whisky they liked, where they got their cigars, how risqué the jokes could
be. He fit in with these princes of the church. And he was a complete
nonbeliever.
He worked for all the
leading pipe organ manufacturers, ending up with the best, a company in Quebec,
where I grew up. He was a meticulous model maker, cutting facades for miniature
organs from Bristol board in complicated patterns that could all come apart and
fit in his briefcase.
I slept in his
dressing room. I’d hear him in the morning, whistling under his breath as he
brushed his hair and tied his tie and shined his shoes. I do that today. He
owned cars that were bizarre for the day, Corvairs (2), Peugeots (3) Citroens
(2). He once owned a used Mercedes that cost him more to keep than his five
children.
He bought a sailing
dinghy he never learned to sail. He bought an island in a cottage lake for back
taxes, and surprised all the old-timers by building a cottage in the middle of
their lake.
He always had the
latest camera, tape recorder, hi fi, binoculars. He took trays and trays of
Kodachrome slides of us growing up. He sent us to interesting educational
summer camps run by socialists. He and my mother worked to elect, in order,
Adlai Stevenson, John Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson, Hubert Humphrey, Gene McCarthy,
George McGovern, and then moved back to Canada.
He retired and moved
to England, then Vermont, then the Maritimes. Each place they went, he and my
mother made new firm friends, usually much younger, and always eccentric.
Wherever he went, he’d sidle into the local Anglican church and ask if he could
try the organ. He’d cut loose with an impromptu recital and the existing
organist, usually a little old lady, would quietly go home and kill herself. He
was the local organist and choirmaster everywhere he lived until he was 87.
He doesn’t do much
now. Sleeps. Complains. Won’t eat. Can’t hear. But, boy oh boy, I hope I have
memories like that when I’m his age.
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