My Father

As summer ends and we begin to grapple with the realization that the warm balmy days are soon to be replaced with cold, blustery and short days. This is the time of the year that my thoughts often turn to my late father.

Papa was born on the Island of Mauritius to a titled family that were modest in their means but yet well accepted in the societal hierarchy that governed the social agenda of this once French colony. Being the fourth and last child he probably had the last say. This formed his character and personality. All his life he had very little to say when in the company of strangers and he kept his own counsel. He had, however, a superb wit which he shared only with those he loved or liked.

He was in his mid-thirties when he discovered my Mother who was a divorcee. She was exotic, beautiful and a diva. The saying that opposites attract is absolutely true. The only thing they had in common was that they both were born on the Island of Mauritius and spoke French as a first language. I still wonder at the mechanics of this attraction and what kept them together all their lives. Their one child might have unwittingly had something to do with it.

Be that as it may, they settled down to a life governed by disputes and marital bliss each carving a personal sanctuary for themselves that the other respected. For my Father it was his work and his cactus plants. At one time he must have had thousands of them. Some were growing in pots and others, far too large for pots, were thriving in rockeries. I think he was attracted to this plant because of their prickly nature. True to their opposite natures, my mother grew African Violets and anthuriums.

Mum adored food, especially rich dishes which inevitably gave her weekly migraines. Mother’s nemesis was a hefty feast of chocolate bars on Sunday after church. Ostensibly these were bought for the three of us to share. She consumed about fifty percent and the remainder was shared between my Father and I. Sunday afternoons was as peaceful as the Gaza Strip during a Palestinian uprising and just about as frequent. We instinctively knew that any peace settlements that had been negotiated at the last uprising were gone with the chocolate fest and that we had between an hour or two after lunch before the onset of hostilities. I would disappear in the bush with my dog whilst my father would literally barricade himself in the work shop.

Father on the other hand was a food ascetic and would have been quite happy with a bowl of rice and a few vegetables. He read books on yoga, woke up in the morning and did his Sun Salutation long before anyone thought this was a cool move. This troubled Mother a great deal as she was convinced that he was about to trade his suit and tie for saffron robes. Being a devout Catholic she sensed that the only way to thwart his attempts at reaching a good karma was to ensure that he ate as much meat as possible. Hence we had animal protein at every meal.

Now one would assume that it would be logical for my father to politely inform his spouse of his reluctance to eat the flesh of other creatures but this was not a negotiable matter as far as Mother was concerned and, in his defense, he was a wise man. However, he won some small victory here. He insisted that he could not digest tough meat and so only the most expensive cuts would do. As our family income was on the modest side this represented a challenge to my mother who had to make do with the budget allocated to food. She would travel about forty miles into the back of beyond to a butcher shop that sold these cuts at a reasonable price. Nevertheless, the portions were moderate in size as they were still quite expensive. Thus my father got to eat less meat. That epitomized the nature of compromise in my home.

Everyone has a hero or role model that they would aspire to be or try to emulate. For my Father it was Albert Schweitzer, who was a medical missionary living in a remote African village in Central Africa. No surprises here. He was a vegetarian and did not believe in killing anything. I was regularly lectured about killing birds and poor old Albert would be figuratively paraded before me as an example and the role model I should emulate.

However, despite his sincere attempts at never deliberately taking another creature’s life he hated flies with a passion that I have not observed in anyone and he would go on a diabolical killing spree. It usually occurred on a Saturday after lunch when he would be trying to take a nap. Being in the tropics it was always hot and he would have his shirt off. The flies would crawl over his naked torso. It drove him insane and he would spend the next hour or so swatting every fly in the house and felling great remorse at his lack of self-control.

My Father and I had a good rapport that grew as I matured. We both understood the value of comrades at arms, especially in the face of mortal danger from matriarchal domination. He persisted in rationalizing diva behaviour and trying to get some sort of perspective to it. He never wavered in his attempt to accommodate and rationalize irrational behaviour and to impress upon me that I should do the same.

In March 1977 we emigrated to Canada and my parents arrived two years later. My Father, now in his early seventies, was delighted to be reunited with his family and looked forward to spending the rest of his life farming and watching his grandchildren grow, and of course, continuing to educate me on the wisdom of accepting what you cannot change and change that which you can change. This in essence meaning, that you can only change yourself.

It was late September, about twenty years ago, and I was working near the dugout when a harbinger wind, a reminder that winter was on its way, blustered through the tall poplars stripping them of their last yellowed leaves, leaving them naked but still tall, proud and defiant of winters.

Papa died in 1998 of Parkinson’s disease, tall in character, proud of his family and still defiantly trying to understand and explain the inexplicable.

Bayete! Makulu Baba. Zulu greeting to great father and chief. This tribute has been long overdue.