As Mom and I sat at Dad's bedside after he had the stroke so many things rushed and swirled in my head. Among them were amazing memories of being a kid and having the person, who was now so helpless before me, as my father.
One of my earliest memories of a series of cottages that we all enjoyed was on Big Stave Island in the Thousand islands; the drive from Montréal, passing the Soulange canal, and boarding the boat for the trip to the island from the landing near Gananoque. One particular memory stands out. Dad by the water below Dick's cottage washing his Boxer Bang with tomato juice after Bang's misadventures with a skunk and then the residual smell of tomato and skunk as we travelled back home to Beaurepaire.
I'm not sure what car Dad was driving at the time but suspect if it was the Blue (Plymouth I believe) Station wagon with the tail fins. That car would be a part our lives soon after Big Stave; it certainly is there in the photos of us in the early days of our second cottage on Lac Supérieur near the North side of Tremblant. In what I always considered unusual or maybe just quintessential Dad, the lane to the cottage was built after Mom, Dad and the boys had carried in everything to build the A-frame by the lake. In addition to great summers on the bay, the weekend trips skiing stand out the most. Bundled up in the station wagon, and later the VW minitruck we headed out after Dad got back from teaching. In a day where regulations and safety were not as rigorous as today I particularly remember that, as the lights when out for the night, the walls of the acorn heater glowing a molten red and Rick in the loft - the warmest place in the cottage. Up in the morning and off to the North Side, lunch with pea soup in the New Bear's Den, or the old log Den that still stood at the time. Because of frost bit on a winter scouting trip, my toes were sensitive to cold and Dad drove me back to the A-frame to ski cross-country with Mom in the afternoon.
As I sat there with Dad in the hospital I was reminded of how much skiing was such a part of our lives: Downhill at Tremblant, cross country at Viking Ski Club and the Ski marathon. Dad and I built my first cross-country skis. At a time when cross country was unheard of, Dad and I unscrewed all the steel edges from his wooden downhill jumping skis, cut them down to width with the band saw, and sanded them to a final finish before attaching the cable ski harness. Of all our cross country skiing together, the mass start of the first centennial ski marathon that started in the vacant field behind the new Fairview shopping centre in Point Claire stands out the most. The race finished in Ottawa with a mass ski by all participants from Dows Lake up the frozen unused Rideau Canal (long before Winterlude). Climbing ladders from the bottom of the canal for a banquet dinner, a baked bean supper if I remember correctly, in the abandoned railway station in downtown Ottawa . There we were awarded the bronze medal in the family team category. For the last 24 years, my office at the University looked out on that canal and I remember that dark evening ski with Dad and the family every time I looked out the window.
That old station wagon, with its distinct Sweet Caporal patina inside, served us well. We rode it until the front seat was supported on the car frame by two-by-fours and we lost or dinky toys through the holes in the floor boards. On one trip North the ski rack blew off and there was Dad in the middle of the Autoroute recovering the skis, which were unscathed by the misadventure and used the next day. On one occasion, when Mom drove Steve, Rick and I to the Beaconsfield pool while she wasn't looking all the buttons out of the push button automatic transmission were pulled out by one of us. The station wagon was replaced by Austin mini minors, one a sedan the other station wagon, and ultimately the VW mini truck with a bench in the back for the three boys and a very flatulent basset named Schpottie.
Swimming at the pool was another part of our lives as kids. Dad missed some of the swim races when he went to school for part of the summers for his teaching certificate and I was so happy when he was back to cheer us on. Dad built the first set of wooden swim blocks for the Beaurepaire swim club and I remember the special pride I felt when I launched from them to race my race.
Wood was a part of our lives with Dad. Whether it was, as he did later in life, hauling it as logs to be cut and dried, or the work of he did in his shop - wood always surrounded us in some way. The addition of the two car garage in Beaurepaire was carefully designed with a sentinel ring of saws and planners surrounding the cars inside. My first memory of working in the shop with Dad was being at the delivery end of the thickness planner. In the days where there was no concern for dust control, I stood happily in a shower of shavings and saw dust to take each board and place it in the dolly beside me, then roll it back to dad for the next pass through the planner. My first project in the shop was to make my paddle for the weeks spent each summer at Camp Kanawana. From a solid block of basswood Dad guided me as I cut, shaped, shaved, and sanded the paddle. I painted my initials and attached the Kanawana decal and added layer after layer of varnish until that paddle shone.
I had left, and headed to University by the time Mom and Dad moved to the farms and later Vankleek Hill where Dad built his last shop on Main Street and then moved it and Mom to the house on Union. I visited the cottage on Rouge when they first bought and almost every adult memory of my Dad is of him and the family there. It's at the Rouge that I met the last two dogs Toby and Becky; who has spent the last week looking for Dad. I now spend every weekend at the cottage on the Rouge and I'll miss Dad's lunch time visit with Mom on Saturday and I'll be looking for and remembering him all the amazing memories he has left me growing up with him as my Dad there. Thanks Dad.
