When my father died a year and a half ago, a cousin brought this photo to his wake and pressed it into my hand. I had never seen the photo until then. It was taken by my uncle. I love this picture. It is one of my favorite photos of all time, and perhaps the most beautiful memento I have of my father. That’s me on the right and my little sister Theresa on the left. Typcially, I look goofy. My nickname was Pookie. I had an imaginary friend called Maggie who lived across the street. I was freckled and skinny and skipped around like a kelpie. I have a framed copy of this photo in my living room, and people who don’t know my family often think it is quite recent. “Is that your husband?” they ask. Many German friends are surprised to learn that the photo was taken in the mid-1960’s, when color photos were still unusual in Germany. Others find it contemporary because of Dad’s brush cut and polo shirt.
I don’t remember when or where this photo was taken, but I remember the feeling of protection I had just being with my father, either on his arm, or beside him. On Sundays he would take us out for a ride in the country, and show us where the deer were likely to congregate, or where one might spot a fox, or where an old Scottish settlement could be found in Lanark County in Ontario. When I was very young he drove a pale blue Chevy with fins. Later, despite his height, he even drove a Mini.
The night of Dad’s funeral, my mother gathered her children and grandchildren, sons and daughters-in-law around her and held a speech. There were probably 50 of us in my sister’s grand parlour. All immediate family. Mom had told us that she wanted to say a few words after the funeral. I assumed she would talk about the estate, and flippantly remarked to my sister as we settled down to listen that we wouldn’t be needing any more tissues. Instead, Mom surprised us by telling us the story of their life.
She and my father were married in August 1945 when the war in Europe was over, but was still raging in the Pacific. Dad, who had spent most of the war as an educational officer in England, volunteered for active duty in the Pacific Theater. But before flying to Japan, he took six weeks’ leave to marry my mother. They spent their honeymoon in a remote cabin in the Gatineau hills near Ottawa, with no newspapers, no radio, no phone, and no other contact to the outside world. When they emerged after several days alone, they discovered that the war had ended. That was the lucky star under which their life together began. It wasn’t always easy, she admitted, having so many children, and yet, she said how proud they were of all of us. It was when she revealed that Dad had told her every single night of his life with her that he loved her, that we were most sorry we didn’t have tissues.
Yesterday my parents would have been married 63 years. And my mother misses Dad more than ever.
