Thoughts on Father's Day

According to the philosopher Plato, Socrates said “The unexamined life is not worth living.” That may be true, but I think that the problem is not so much in the living, but in the examination – or lack thereof. That’s been the thought foremost in my mind as we approach Father’s Day.

I’ve been a dad for a little shy of 16 years. My kids are the both the greatest frustration and the greatest source of pride for me. You would think that the day would mean a lot to me. To be honest, I don’t think about it much – or at least that much where I am concerned. For all the length of time that I’ve been a father, I’ve spent much longer being a son. Maybe that’s why I view it all from that perspective.

My dad is 79 years old. Despite years of hard work, heart attacks, strokes, and surgeries, he is still the same man – albeit at a reduced speed.

In thinking about him, I also think about the quote about ‘unexamined lives’. You see, I think he is a great man, and I’ll even go so far as to say a better one than me. That said, I have my writing, this blog, my political comings and goings to ensure that somebody, somewhere will know who I am and what I’m about. He doesn’t have that, and because I believe that his life has been – and continues to be – one worth living, I will offer an examination of my own.

He was born in the latter part of the Depression into a poor family that would eventually number eight kids. It was not a good situation. Wearing hand-me-downs from cousins and taking a lunch to school that consisted of a slather of lard between two pieces of bread was commonplace. I do not wish to go into a detailed examination of how and why things were that way. There were a confluence of events before my father and his siblings entered this world that set the stage, and that both alcoholism and mental illness played their part.

At age four, he was given to my grandfather’s nephew and his wife to raise, and for a while, that worked well. It was when that couple, not having children of their own, wished to formally adopt him that things changed. While not in a position to raise my father, and not having actually done so for more than a couple of years, my grandparents could not accept this and demanded his immediate return.

Living in a household with a family he barely knew, and in – to be diplomatic – less than ideal conditions, my father made a fateful decision.

One day, while walking to school, he threw his school books in a creek and with no money and just the clothes on his back, he set out to hitchhike to Toronto. He told me that the first person to stop for him ‘tried something’ but he managed to get away, and another person stopped to help. That stranger took him to his destination. 

Once he arrived, he found work as a hand with a moving company. As he had no money, he saved as much of the meal allowance he was given, and slept in either the warehouse or one of the trucks. The owner of the company would take him home on weekends and invited him to join his family for Sunday meals. Eventually, he managed to save enough that he could rent a room in a boarding house.

At the time this was happening, my father was the ripe old age of 12.

Over the years he would find himself back in the vicinity, and doing all sorts of jobs – from construction, to piling lumber, to working as a hand on some of the steamships that would haul coal and other materials between Kingston, Ontario and Oswego, New York.

He would eventually marry, helping his in-laws with their dairy farm when he wasn’t working another job. He would go back to school and get his papers to become a Stationary Engineer. For a spell, he would have his own modest haulage business, with two trucks and a backhoe.

When the economy turned and prospects dimmed, he and my mother would sell the house and part of the farm and, with everything of value loaded into a station wagon and a U-Haul trailer, make a trek to Northeastern BC, 2800 miles away.

Life often makes a person hard. It makes them cold and callous. You would think that under the circumstances, living under the same roof would have made for a less than pleasant childhood.

I lived in a home where I was never hurt or abused. I lived in a home where I was never witness to abuse either. I lived in a home where I was encouraged to think for myself, and where nothing I said, or did, or dreamed of doing was discouraged.

I was raised in a family where a mortgage payment might be late because the money went to paying for either my sister or I to go to something because ‘it would be good for us.’ In fact, he probably quit smoking a thousand times over the years, because if he had a choice between buying a pack of cigarettes and giving his kids money for lunch, we never went without a carton of milk.

I was raised by parents who refused to declare bankruptcy for their haulage business because it meant that local businesses would not get paid, and their reputations meant more than a quick out.

I lived in a home where strangers who needed a bed and a hot meal were never refused, even if my folks had been taken advantage of for the umpteenth time.

I lived in a home where I always heard my dad say that he loved me and was proud of me. For the record, he still does it.

When I was about to graduate University, I was asked how I wanted my name to appear on the diploma. I asked that my middle name, Hugh, be included. You see, that’s my father’s name and to have it written on that paper was important to me.

When I took a hand at writing fiction, I adopted the pen name ‘B.H. Cameron’ and often use the ‘H’ when I identify myself. When my son was born, the name Hugh was also included in his full name.

My father is not a complicated man, but he’s not a stupid one either. He wears his heart on his sleeve and does nothing by half-measures. He’ll embrace what he thinks is right, and not be shy about calling out things he feels are wrong. He is generous (to a fault) and is willing to hold a grudge to his dying day, but is equally willing to forget the whole thing upon hearing the words ‘I’m sorry’ – even if they were not offered in sincerity.

He would never place himself above others, but he’ll be damned if he’ll allow himself to be placed below either.

I’ve had the chance to build a life free of the hardship, deprivation and abuse my father suffered in his childhood, but that owes less to the choices I’ve made than to the ones he did. After all, I have his example of being a father to follow. He had to wing it. It reminds me of something a read in a book about the Bronfman family. When reportedly asked about building their fortune, Samuel Bronfman commented that turning a million dollars into a billion was not all that difficult. The hard part, he said, was getting to a million from just one dollar. I see fatherhood in very much the same light.

In a very real sense, I am my father’s son.

I’m neither impressed by how much a person has nor repelled by how little they may possess. I believe that family and friends are your most prized possession, and loyalty is the price you pay to maintain them. I believe that there are better people than me, but that’s based on the content of their character and not their bank account or how many dusty sheets of paper line the walls of their house.

I believe that the difference between a wealthy person and a poor person has more to do with luck and providence than any intrinsic ethic of labour or integrity.

I don’t have a role or station to fulfill, but I have a job to do, and affectations are merely the shiny wrapping paper and pretty ribbons that adorn it.

I believe a friend is someone who would feed you if you were hungry, clothe you when bare, and offer a place from the wet and cold. Everyone else is an associate or an acquaintance – including yourself if you’re not prepared to help when called upon.

I have a rather indelicate sense of humour, and will take time from the weighty matters of life to be a complete imbecile and butt of my kids’ jokes.

I will hold a grudge for longer than what my wife considers healthy, and yet, with a simple ‘I’m sorry’ the matter is put to rest.

All of this, I got from my dad.

In writing this – in ensuring that my father’s life is not ‘unexamined’ – I lay open a great deal. Like many families from our little part of the world, people keep things private. Such candidness is not common. Having said that, I don’t believe that any bit of this account represents a poor reflection of anyone. 

My grandparents lived complicated lives and had histories of their own to overcome. If there was a failure, it was that they were unable to do that, leaving those problems as an inheritance. In my youth, I could never understand this, but time teaches you that life isn’t simple, and that they were not the exception, but the rule.

We are born into this world naked and unaware, wholly dependent and wholly vulnerable. In that regard (and with apologies to those who believe in karmic reincarnation), being born a pauper is no more an indication of unworthiness than being born a Rockefeller is one of some intrinsic virtue. It means that our fate lies in the hands of those whose care we are placed in.

My father’s situation owed to the choices his father made. Everything I have – or will ever have – owes to his decision to do differently, to be different – even if he didn’t know what that was or how to achieve it.

My father was the ‘best man’ at my wedding. In truth, he’s been the better man all along.