Father's Day Thoughts

 Father's Day Thoughts

My maternal grandfather became my father figure when I was about six years old and he was a wholly admirable substitute. On the other hand, my 'real' father vanished shortly after we, my mother my brother and I, moved in with my mother's parents.  At the time it was a great mystery to me. Why did we have to move and where did he go?  I have a few vivid memories of our life before he left us. 

He had charmed my mother into marrying him. The problem, or at least one of the problems, was that he charmed other young women too. He also enjoyed alcohol and betting on the horses. Unfortunately that meant there was almost no money left over for supporting his wife and two children.  Before long, my grandparents discovered that our living situation was disastrous. Soon after that we moved in with them. 

In the beginning, I believe my mother hoped it would be a short-term situation. She went to work full time. She had graduated from high school but in the late 1940's her low wages didn't enable her to rent a place for herself and her two children.  My brother and I had bedrooms in the basement of my grandparents home. The basement flooded every spring and sometimes in the fall, too.  My mother updated her education and learned bookkeeping skills and we all continued to live with her parents. 

I'm sure it was not a friction-less time for my mother or for my grandparents; but any disagreements took place very quietly.  Truly, my grandfather was a quiet man. I can't recall him ever raising his voice but he never needed to. He could make me feel guilty with a look.  My brother and I were told often not to raise our voices and to respect him. He had served in France in World War One and experienced its horrors,  He was not a church-going man, but if I was singing a solo  or performing in a play at the church he would be there. In his quiet way, he was supportive of anything I tried for.   He also taught us, my brother and me how to shoot a rifle. There was a target range in Woodslee and he took us there to practice. He had learned to shoot as a boy because he grew up in a village in rural Ontario and there was a rifle club. He was an excellent shot and had to use that skill during the war but he never mentioned it, or anything else about his war service.

He had a heart attack and died when I was twenty and still living at home. He loved us as a father should. I honour him and I miss him still.