MY DAD

Nov.22/24

 

Old age tends to find me looking back in my personal history and reflecting on many elements of my long and full life.  My Parents have been gone from this world for over 27 years and I still, at times say to myself, "I sure would like to share this with Mom and Dad". It won’t be anything of any consequence but to share it would have been a blessing. My mom’s home life before my dad, was tumultuous, so to be fair my story will continue with my dad’s. The good old raunchy days of the early 20’s was way back in the rear-view mirror and when I finally “was born” and entered this world in July of 1936, it was with mixed emotions for my parents. A sigh of relief and a sense of disappointment.  I was surely going to be a girl as two miscarriages before were boys.  Mom never got over the disappointment but I think dad was just happy to be a father.

At the age of twelve, my father was working in a neighborhood grocery store and as many young men following the Great War from a large lower middle-class family, Clarence Judson Scott was about to enter the working class and be another contributor to the household.

My Grandma and Grandpa were Londoners from the north-east of this great city. Hackney was an upper middleclass area and my grandpa was the mailman and grandma was a maid in a fine house.  That situation brought them together and so was born a union that lasted over 60 years. My father was born the 8th 0f 9 children, 6 boys and 3 girls. Alice died at 30 and Alfred was a 19 years old casualty of the Great War in France. The rest of the uncles and aunts all died in their late 80’ s except for two Aunts that were just under 100 and over 100 years old. My Great grandmother died at 106. The genes are on my side for a long life but at the age of 88, I am certainly slowing down and I must be very conscious of the fact that my father and younger brother were both victims of our suspect healthcare in Canada. My dad was over-medicated with blood thinners in the hospital following a minor stroke and my brother died during covid of suspicious circumstances that have never been revealed. I have been very skeptical of our health care as I have been faced with death on four occasions and have had to take my life and body into my own responsibility away from the system and go against protocol to give me the life I have to-day. Those stories are documented in many of my former writings.

Early years until I was about ten years old found me with not very much contact with my dad. The war while not directly in our face, had a chilling effect on children.  Life as we knew it in the 30’s was changed drastically in 1939 when many friends were seeing their fathers going off to war. Many families had to survive with the loss of a man in the house for months at a time. My dad gave up his job as a pattern maker and shoe designer, as mandated by the government.  His new job was in a munitions factory where he ran a lathe machine and was a medic as well. He worked long hours.  I don’t remember much about a normal home life.  My dad was an Air-raid warden for our community when we settled into a very nice semi-detached home in Leaside. Dad was issued a steel army helmet, a whistle and white gloves and belt for his uniform.  He was responsible for touring our neighborhood whenever the air raid sirens were going off. His job was to warn all households if there were interior lights showing.  My father was born at the right time 1910, he avoided having to serve in either of the two great wars. Too young for the 1st. and too old for the 2nd. We were never in any harm from German bombers but best to be prepared for what might happen in the future. We knew that German submarines were as far up the St. Lawrence River as Montreal.  My Uncle Jack was a sub-Mariner in the Canadian Navy and reported that German Sailors would be seen in Montreal Bars. The 1940’s was a scary time for a kid even as far away from the action as we were.

My dad was able to get a job in Montreal that paid about three times more than in Ontario so we up and moved to a basement apartment at the corner of Sherbrook and Mayfair Ave. in Westmount, a suburb of Montreal. Eventually, I was sent back to Toronto to live with my Grandmother Franklin in a tough Italian neighborhood on Bartlett Ave. and Bloor area in the west end. Months went by without any contact with my brother Wayne or my parents. These were sad and lonely times for me and I got a taste of what it was like for a child with no father or mother. Finally, my parents realized this was no life even if the money was hard to give up and we were re-united in a new atmosphere outside the big city in a small town called Brampton(about 3,000 people at that time) . To give the reader a peek into what kind of money we are talking about. In Ontario, my dad was making about $35.00 a week, In Montreal he made $100.00 per week and then in Brampton, he started around $55.00 per week. I remember my father showing the family a $20.00 bill. The first we had ever seen and that was a rare thing to own for many years into the future.

Brampton offered a very different lifestyle to a kid from downtown Toronto and Montreal. Our family was now, mom and dad and three boys. Gordon arrived shortly after our move and we were settling into an old house that had been rather neglected by the older couple that owned it for a long time. I think this move and living in a house full of nostalgia and antiques inspired me to be such an antique buff later in life. I worked alongside my dad and I mimicked so many of his moves and handyman tricks that stood me well in my hobby of restoration of mainly boats and buildings. Dad could do almost anything he put his mind to. Electrical, plumbing, carpentry, were all in his wheelhouse of expertise. He subscribed to a magazine called Mechanics Illustrated and as we never had much disposable income, he was forced to do all his own repairs. I would go with my dad on a Saturday morning to the Canadian Tire store on Yonge Street to buy parts for our car, there was always something his cars needed to keep them running. This was the first Canadian Tire store and it was a large open space with Terraza floors and a counter across the back of the room separating the warehouse from the store. The clerks were all men wearing roller-skates so they could move twice as fast to fill the orders. There was no stock on the floor, you ordered from a large catalogue. Many years later, I called on the same building in my work as a sales agent.

Cars were always on the minds of the Man of the house. My father was no exception. I remember our Chevy roadster with the Rumble seat. It was red with yellow spoked wheels and I loved that car. Dad and I were coming home from Sunday school one winter’s afternoon and as we went under a bridge, it was called the Viaduct in Leaside when a large snow ball came crashing through the canvas roof of our little car. Being a shoe designer and pattern maker, he just made another roof for our car.

My mother was the domineering parent in our house and she ruled over her kingdom with an iron fist. I felt sorry for dad as he was obviously madly in love with a woman that was not always able to reciprocate.  I never heard a raised voice nor did my dad ever scold we three boys. That was my mother’s job and she did it well. Dad was a gentle man; he was the meek that God said would inherit the earth. He had a dry humor and he loved to laugh and interact with my brothers and me. My dad was not one to step out and be adventuresome in some ways. Like most people they need a push when in strange and unfamiliar places, and I took that responsibility on with great pleasure when it came to dealing in real-estate and moving forward into dad’s retirement. Once I convinced him that he could retire on the funds he had with a major purchase that I knew would work out to his and mother’s future retirement plans. It meant buying the house next door on the corner of Mill and Harold streets, combining the two lots and selling the house after some freshening up and making an additional lot combining the back half of the two properties. A bit complicated and a hard sell but I did convince dad to get with the plan and when he did, it was the best decision he made since leaving Montreal. My dad jumped in with both feet and Joan and I helped as best we could with a lot of the planning and a lot of elbow grease as well. Properties were sold as planned and then a move to a whole new life in their summer cottage that was to be renovated for winter living in Orillia. It didn’t take long for my father to see the benefits of house flipping and he got into the fun of it and profited as well. My dad managed our properties in Orillia and that was a great help to me, although, I still had the dirty jobs of collecting back rents and the sad task of evictions.

As much as I did not want to sell the lot off of our Lake Couchiching property, my mother insisted that she wanted to be close to us for the boy’s sake. I was not keen on having my parents so close as much as I loved them and respected their wanting to be close to us. I finally sold them the lot for $35,000 when I knew it would appreciate to a much higher price if I waited. Except for the excavation, foundation and basic construction, dad moved right in on the building project of 624 Moberley Ave. and did all the electric, plumbing and finishing – he built his house next door to us and it worked out just fine. Dad loved boating almost as much as I and every time he thought I might be going out in one of my power boats, he would be there, Johnnie on the spot for another boating adventure. Every fall for many years we would gather our family along with Marita and Charlie, and Miriam and Bob, our two boys and of course our lovely dog Blue. We would take a trip on my 1923 - 40 ft. Ditchburn Day Cruiser to the Big Chute on the Trent canal.  Dad was an avid photographer and this was a special day as the colour was always spectacular. When we returned, we were so disappointed that my father forgot to put a film in the camera. To add insult to injury, this little faux pas was repeated the next year. He never lived that down.

Dad enjoyed being retired and he deserved every day as he was a hard worker and gave more than he expected in return, dad worked steady from the time he was 12 years old , so retirement before 65 was a welcome relief, he was a great father. My brothers and I were never too interested in sports and that was good as our dad was not an athletic jock. Dad did go golfing with me a few times but he was much happier with a rod and reel or a camera. He did love his 16 ft. outboard boat and when he dawned his nautical cap, he looked so happy.

When Uncle Walter phoned from Florida to say that dad should consider looking at a Florida home, he was politely turned down. This was the reaction many times when something so outrageous was put up as a possibility. My dad never thought grandiose thoughts, but when confronted with the question, why not? He almost always weighed the situation and took up the challenge. My parents were to become Snow Birds and this gave Joan and I a pathway to Florida as well. We eventually bought their house and moved them into a much nicer setting and a lot cheaper so dad was now in a position to manage a few investments we might get involved with in the south. I always had a car in Florida so I could pick up and fly down for a few days so many times this would be their option as well. I purchased a 36 ft. Motor sailor that was on its last legs and the bank was only too pleased to let me have it for a better than normal price. This little side line caused both families to make a change of geography and culture. To provide a mooring for the boat, we decided to do the same for ourselves and off we went to buy a mobile home in a park that was on the water with full access to the Gulf of Mexico. We came home one day and presented our new plan to mom and dad and to our amazement they bought in the same park and moved in ahead of us giving the impression that we followed our parents to Tropic Isles. This was a good move for them as they were able to get involved with all the activities a park of this caliber could offer.  

My mother and father were now at the age of having to settle down in Orillia and their last home was a mansion on the water overlooking Big Chief Island on Lake Couchiching. I purchased this grand home with an airplane hangar as an investment and casually mentioned that I was looking for a tenant. My mother, not surprisingly said that she wanted to live in this luxurious space and would I consider them if they sold their home? I agreed and so again I was able to treat my parents to a life style way beyond any of our dreams. I never spent more than a few week-ends there but Joan and the boys had a special summer with my mom and dad. Fall was upon us and my mother gave their notice to vacate as she said when she saw 4/200 gallon oil tanks in the basement that they could not afford the high maintenance and they were ready for condo living.

When my mother passed, dad wanted to keep the apartment but I insisted that for a short period he might like to live with us in our latest investment, a 40-room mansion in Kirkfield. We had purchased a few years earlier and with 15 bedrooms that we were now being Inn Keepers, we could set up a one-bedroom apt. for him and meals and any necessary care would be there for him 24 hours. He agreed and was happy and in very much better health than he had been for some time. Dad helped around the house a bit and was never late for breakfast with our guests. He entertained with his stories and was a hit with 15 models from the Ford model agency for a shoot for the Macys catalogue. They all thought he was the cutest. He was in his glory that day.

My dad wanted to stay in Florida as by that time he was living with us there as well. We did not want to leave him there alone over Christmas so he relented and we were all at Michael’s house in Mississauga. He died of a stroke Christmas week Dec 29/97. I am sure that he would have had many more years with us and this story would be much longer, however, he was left in the hands of a hospital environment overnight, just long enough to overmedicate him which caused his untimely death at the age of 87.  

My dad was the finest man I have ever been in contact with in my now 88 years. I knew him well. I can’t say he was overly affectionate; he was not. Only once in all the years we spent together did he express his love for me in words or contact. But I remember it well. We were in the games room at the Inn and my dad was signing his stain glass light fixture he had made that hung over the billiard table. He had just come down and said how works of art were worth more if signed by the maker. He turned to me and gave me a hug and a tender kiss on the cheek and simply said, I love you son. This was my father here on earth. A man of a few words but when speaking, you should be listening.

 

Paul D. Scott                                    rantingsandraves.com