The Nova Scotia Book of Fathers Read online

  After the defeats of the native Irish in the seventeenth century, many of the County Clare MacMahons emigrated to serve in the Irish Brigade of the French army. John Baptiste MacMahon, descended from the MacMahon female line, was the son of one of the original members of the Irish Brigade. His grandson, Patrice de MacMahon (1808-1893), was created Duke of Magenta, became a field marshal and later the French president.

  Meanwhile, the legendary High King Brian Ború was famed not only for his wisdom and fierce warrior skills, but also for playing the harp and composing epic ballads. I’m not sure if he would be a fan of Dad’s musical skills, but he’d certainly be mesmerized by my nephew’s, as well as his taste in music.

  Dad always had a taste for World Music himself, long before most Canadians had ever heard of it. He loved to drive around Truro in a little pink Lada with World Beats, East Indian, and Chinese music blaring out of the windows, much to the chagrin of my sister, who used to ask him to drop her off a couple of blocks from her school every day. On the other hand, I always enjoyed driving with my dad and listening to his new finds.

  Now, years later, it just makes sense that I should carry on Dad’s tradition. So after many car and cottage adventures with Aidan and his friends, we, too, love to explore various styles of music. This culminated last summer when my jazz aficionado nephew discovered Frank Zappa and, like most teenagers, wanted to play his favourite tunes over and over and over again until I thought if I heard the phrase “smoking in the pygmy twylyght” or the dental floss song (“Montana”) one more time I would go batty.

  In the meantime, my sister’s younger two kids have been somewhat harder to reach, as much because of my busy work schedule as anything, first as a professional actor and later as a politician. In their formative years, I had lived “away,” following my dreams to other cities and countries to pursue my career as a professional actor and singer. But I made a decision in 2007, after thirty-three years on the road, to move home to Nova Scotia. I had reached a point in my life where family really meant more to me than anything and I wanted to be a part of the kids’ lives growing up, get to know my younger sister better, and spend more time with our parents as they age. I didn’t want to miss a thing.

  When I lived away, my dad always drove me to the airport, and picked me up when I arrived home. These sixty-kilometre trips were the best opportunities for us to talk frankly about what was going on in our lives. These were the times when Dad would give me stern admonitions, praise my successes, or slip me some cash or a cheque if I was in dire financial straits. I cherished our time alone together and always looked forward to these rides. There was an unspoken comfort between us that I just don’t have with anyone else.

  With his long hair and beard, Dad always had a deep wisdom about him that belied his short stature and even shorter feet and fingers. He is a born leader and a born teacher, with the “patience of Job” and kindness and compassion unsurpassed by anyone I know. He is also a published writer of poetry, short stories, two novels, and several children’s books about the adventures of a group of Australian animals, the Aussie Six.

  As a teacher and trainer of teachers, Dad was often lovingly referred to by his students and schoolchildren alike as “The Leprechaun,” which always puzzled me since our last name is far from Irish. But with a lot of research, we finally realized without a doubt that the family name was actually Zaninovic, which means “Son of John.” Dad’s great-grandparents Vincent Zaninovic and Ursula Garbati were born in a little sailing and fishing town called Starigrad on a beautiful natural harbour on the island of Hvar in the Adriatic. Sailing and trading merchants in the Great Age of Sail, both families owned and commanded large fleets of wooden ships in which they plied the waves up and down the Adriatic coast, selling and trading goods to Italy, Greece, Germany, Romania, and beyond.

  Dad has been back to the Old Country over the years and so have I. And when we went, we both fell in love with its ancient aura of peace and deep sense of history – a magical land where Time itself stands still. The place really does seem stuck in time: surrounded by fields of lavender, dusty grey olive groves, succulent grapes, and crimson pomegranates hanging seductively off twisted branches like arms offering up the fruit of the goddess. With the lonesome cries of the ravens, the ringing of the bells calling parishioners to prayer, the fresh aroma of purple lavender and pungent rosemary, and sharp dark pines jutting up against a clear blue sky, Starigrad and its environs are very much the same as they have been since 384 B.C. when the town was founded by the Greeks.

  The original inhabitants were Illyrians, and the region (named Illyria, which has lived on as the setting of Shakespeare’s play Twelfth Night) was long protected by their fierce pirate Queen Teuta, renowned for her battle strategy and naval skills to keep her people safe from the Romans and Turks. Years after she died, her Greek neighbours and trading partners sailed from the island of Pharia and claimed the natural harbour and fertile plain for their own, calling it Pharos, which later became Paros and finally Hvar in the Slavic tongue.

  Dad’s Zaninovic great-grandparents emigrated from Starigrad to Sydney, Australia, in 1889 by ship, when the Great Age of Sail was coming to an end due to the emergence of steamships that were much faster at delivering goods. Sadly, with no use for them anymore and no buyers, many beautiful three- and four-masted ships were simply left behind to rot on the island in large watery graveyards. The late 1800s were hard on Croatians because a grape blight hit them at the same time as their shipping crisis, so their corner on the wine market ended at about the same time as the stately ships.

  The Zaninovics sailed to Australia with five young children in tow and once in the Land Down Under, they quickly lopped off their name to become Zann in order to better fit in. Always industrious, Vincent Zann and some of his brothers and cousins established the first broom factory in Australia. Zann Brooms were very popular for many years and the immigrant family prospered.

  Eventually, Vincent’s son Marino married an Irish lass; the Croatians and Irish were all Catholics, and Protestants and Catholics never ever got together (well, almost never). They likely met at the church, or possibly some Catholic event. And since Lucy Finnigan (nee McMahon) was a teacher whose family made brushes and combs, I imagine it was a marriage made in heaven with Mario and his family’s broom business.

  In any case, that’s how my dad got the Irish twinkle and leprechaun-like ways. And clearly his great storyteller, writer, and poet roots lie deep in the soil, blood, bones, and soul of both great ancient cultures.

  But growing up in Australia none of us knew any of this history. The family never spoke of the Old Country, preferring to embrace their new lives. I would also imagine discrimination played a part in this decision because at that time Croatia was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and of course the First World War was triggered by a Serbian in the region. Italians, Greeks, and those from the Slavic counties were often referred to as “Wogs” in Australia, so most immigrants seemed to assimilate and marry into other cultures as quickly as possible, although in the old family photo albums there are scores of pictures of huge, happy Zann family picnics – a tradition that still continues.

  As a kid, when my dad would ask his grandfather to tell him who the Zanns were, and where they had come from, the old man always said they were from Austria. From time to time he would tell the boy that we came from a magical, mystical island named Illyria where we sailed everywhere on majestic ships and our ancestor was once a queen … Dad, always the budding storyteller, loved these “far-fetched” tales of his grandfather.

  After Marino died, his children found his passport and the Record of Ship’s Passage in a battered old suitcase in his room, safely wrapped and away from prying eyes. That’s when we began to realize the truth of our family origins.

  As a young man Dad always dreamed of being a lawyer. But his father died young, leaving his wife and five children behind, and Dad, just fourteen, the oldest, took his duty as the new “man of the fam
ily” very seriously. Instead of the years of study and finances it would take to become a lawyer, Dad quickly gave up that idea and got his teaching degree, living at home with his mother, who never remarried, and helping her raise his younger siblings.

  In his twenties, Dad met my mum, also a teacher, and in 1968 they immigrated to Canada when I was an only child. Like Dad’s original family, we, too, made our way to our new home by ship, the SS Canberra. We sailed from Sydney to Vancouver with two thousand other Australian teachers, as there was a shortage of teachers in Canada at the time and too many in Australia.

  Mum and Dad had only planned to stay in Canada for one year, but Dad had been offered many jobs and the role of professor at the University of Regina intrigued him. And although we were thrilled to see snow for the first time in our lives, we weren’t expecting to see quite so much of it, and the constant below-freezing temperatures proved too much for Aussies used to Christmas at the beach – body-surfing in Bondi or Manly, where we had lived right on the ocean. When my mother’s legs turned blue one day waiting for a bus to get to classes, she discovered why in the 1960s Canadian women left their miniskirts hanging in their closets during winter months. I got my tongue stuck on the car door trying to lick the pretty patterns of ice. Dad, however, discovered two things in Saskatchewan that he loves to this day: the Roughriders and country music. Thanks to him, I love country music, too.

  The Prairies were interesting in other ways, and my parents learned something important there as new immigrants that has influenced and shaped our lives in Canada for the past fifty years. They discovered Tommy Douglas and the New Democratic Party of Canada. So, although fans of Pierre Elliott Trudeau, they joined the NDP in Regina; they saw the values and principles of this party as much more in keeping with their values and principles of social justice, egalitarianism, fairness, environmentalism, and looking out for the ordinary people.

  Saskatchewan could not, however, contain our little Zann clan since the Prairies are – to be blunt – rather flat. We were thirsting for variety. Dad’s sister Moira had once been to Nova Scotia and told him it was beautiful, so Dad applied for a job at the Nova Scotia Teachers College in Truro (now regrettably defunct). He was accepted immediately and told his role would be to teach Early Childhood Development, Modern Methods of Education, and Creative Writing, all subjects for which he had a great passion and knowledge.

  Even before the school year was over, Dad went out and bought a tiny camper trailer that he hitched to our car. After our last day of classes, we headed on a long road trip across the country, with maps, guidebooks, geography and history books, thanks to my mother the Social Science teacher. We backtracked and travelled through the Rocky Mountains, stopping in campsites all along the way. At Banff and Jasper, we stood on a glacier for the first time, and discovered chipmunks, much to my eight-year-old delight. Then we set our compass for Truro, Nova Scotia.

  We loved Montreal and Quebec and absolutely revelled in the fact that a country like Canada has so many cultures and languages, including French and the many First Nations languages and cultures. The covered bridges of New Brunswick were interesting, but we really felt we were coming home when we finally smelled the ocean and saw the beautiful Bay of Fundy for the very first time.

  When we hit Truro, the three of us felt we were home. The people welcomed us with open arms, and Mum and Dad lost no time in helping to establish Truro and Area’s first Multicultural Society, since they discovered there were many other new immigrants from other countries who had come to Nova Scotia as well. As a professor at the Teachers College, Dad was at the forefront of the Early Childhood Development movement, which is really only now, almost fifty years later, beginning to pick up steam.

  Dad has also always had a deep affinity for Indigenous people the world over. So he did some research and consultation and introduced the very first Aboriginal Teachers Program at the NSTU. Along with new-found Mi’kmaw friends Bernie Francis and Noel Knockwood, he designed this program to encourage Mi’kmaw students to become teachers. One of the first things Dad noticed when we moved to Nova Scotia was that in spite of the many Mi’kmaw children, there were no teachers from their own culture. Dad said this was unacceptable.

  By the end of that program, Dad had graduated about thirteen Mi’kmaw teachers. It was one of his most enjoyable and proudest highlights as a professor. But he also saw the government of the day cut the funding to the program, thus ending it. And the government closed down the entire NSTU. “A political decision,” people say. Then they add, “One of the worst mistakes ever made by a government!”

  I feel blessed to have such smart teachers for parents, as both taught me from an early age about the many impossible challenges and injustices faced by African Nova Scotians, Acadians, and the Mi’kmaq people. Together they taught this for years in Truro as a way to open up people’s eyes, minds, and hearts in order to overcome old prejudices and prevent future discrimination.

  But it isn’t just the arts and social activism that run through my father’s veins. When Dad was younger he was a great athlete. Tennis was always his game. He was very close to his father, Vince, who also played tennis and was his coach. I remember a story Dad told of how as a young teen he had once played against a tall, gangly kid in a tournament. When his opponent walked onto the court with his own father as coach, Vince leaned to Dad and said, “By the looks of him, son, I’d say you can beat him in no time! He’s nothing but skin and bones!” According to Dad, that was the only match he ever played where he received a complete and utter thrashing. It was also the day my father said he learned the old axiom, “You can’t judge a book by its cover.” The gangly youth – Ken Rosewall – turned out to become one of Australia’s greatest tennis champs of all time. Dad loves that story.

  Despite his many social justice and multicultural activities, Dad’s love for tennis couldn’t be contained and he soon joined the Truro Tennis Club in the heart of beautiful Victoria Park. Here, too, he made many lifelong friends. Now at eighty-three, Dad doesn’t play anymore, although he still loves to watch.

  For some reason, none of the women in our family have ever picked up the game (or any other), so Dad usually tends to watch sports alone. Feeling guilty one time, I asked him if he had ever felt disappointed that he never had any boys. Without hesitation he said, “I wouldn’t trade one of my two girls for any boy! You have both made me so proud and I love you more than anything.”

  That’s why my dad is so special. He also told me when I was a kid that in spite of his title of professor, my mother was “a lot smarter” than him. That kind of message sticks with a child. If only more fathers would praise women like that, I’m sure we’d have a lot less violent society. Respect: that’s the key.

  Many, many times Dad said I could become anything no matter whether I was a woman or a man. Unfortunately, we’ve both had our eyes opened lately regarding the world of politics, where it seems the system and many of those in it still assume that men’s rightful place is at the top of the heap calling the shots. Some things take a really long time to change. But it’s worth it in the end. And what is the alternative?

  Mum and Dad now both have the enjoyment of being grandparents to my sister’s two boys and one girl. My niece Maia, twelve, is an award-winning gymnast and their younger grandson Lachlan, thirteen, is already a great young athlete. Soccer is his game, but he is one who has been blessed with the ease and grace of a natural player in any sport.

  The first day of March Break, I phoned Lachlan on his new cell phone and invited him to do something with his aunt. He decided he’d like to kick a soccer ball around at our local Cougar Dome, a new indoor sports facility in Truro. The soccer field had been pre-booked, so we only had half an hour to do some running around and the poor kid had to put up with my terrible soccer skills before it was time to leave. But on our way out, Sid, the young manager in charge, said, “I feel bad for you guys. How about tennis? We have a few courts wide open.” We both shook our heads. �
��We don’t play,” I said. But, undaunted, Sid pulled over a basket full of tennis balls and a couple of rackets. He said, “I’ll tell you what: you guys didn’t get much time on the court in there, so how about I give you another half an hour or so to just give it a try? I’ll even give you a few pointers to get you started.” I looked at Lachie and shrugged. He nodded and it was Game On.

  After a very quick lesson from Sid on how to hold the racket and try to hit the ball over the net, we managed to get the hang of it. I noticed a particular popping sound when our rackets hit the ball straight on. It suddenly brought back memories of my years as a little girl in Australia watching Dad play when he was really good. I started seeing photos from long-ago albums when Dad got his first tennis racket at eight, and several posed with his father, both of them smiling at the camera before or after a game. One in particular stands out in my mind of Dad at fourteen going off proudly with Vince. Dad won often; he had a strong serve and could move quickly around the court. Just as Lachlan does today on the soccer field.

  All of this was going through my mind as I started playing tennis with my nephew. And in spite of the fact that we could only manage to get the ball back and forth over the net ten times in a row at most going easy on each other, and each won and lost several games based totally on the lack of skill of our serve, I began to see where my dad’s love of the game may have come from. Maybe this had been Dad’s precious time to bond with his father. Maybe this was one of those Zen moments when you are totally in the moment, simply breathing and aware, connecting with the ball and your opponent under the watchful eye of your wisest and best friend. And maybe because this joyful family bond was robbed from my dad and his father too soon, it has come full circle and deserves acknowledgement.

  As Lachlan and I battled it out on the court, I could see it in the joy and grace of this young boy opposite me, and in his grin when he managed to best me. I could feel it in the racket swooshing through the air. I could hear it in the sound of the ball popping when it connected properly with the racket. I could feel it all through my body when I let it run free and stretch, to jump and leap and slam a backhander (my best stroke, Sid tells me). And I could feel it in the camaraderie and trust that were building up between the two players: my nephew and me. When we ended the game with a handshake, I could feel the connection to my nephew, to my dad, to the many adventurous souls in our family who had created this moment, and to the generations still to come.