The Nova Scotia Book of Fathers Read online

  In Memory Of Dad

  (Adapted from the eulogy for Roger Flinn)

  Craig Flinn

  This poem, written just after the move to Port Williams, was given to Mum under the Christmas tree in a pewter frame, December 25, 2005. It is called “Comes a Time.”

  let down your arms,

  let it all go,

  this quest we’re on,

  this need to know.

  the answers lie,

  behind the sun;

  stare long and hard,

  blind to faith become.

  life’s shadows lengthen

  like dark shrouds;

  evening skies now aged

  with wisdom clouds.

  just let it happen

  speak wiser years;

  comes a time

  you’ll know you’re there

  comes a time

  to just receive,

  comes a time

  to just believe.

  It is with Dad’s own words I chose to begin this reflection – this far too early account of a man whose love of family went so deep to the core of who he was that only he, with his brilliant mind and loving heart, can begin to express to you his knowledge and profound understanding of the world around him.

  Anything I am able to do to impress upon you the impact of his love, support, and guidance through the years are simply crib notes of a life that was so meaningful and special to so many, it would fill volumes if properly recorded.

  Dad was a storyteller. He not only used words of his own to relate to us how he felt about the world, but he used them in powerful, shortened strokes, with each poetic verse brighter and more full of sentiment and meaning than the last.

  On a recent trip to Provence, we visited the asylum in St. Remy where van Gogh painted many of his greatest masterpieces, but also where he ended his life. Dad always appreciated art, but on that sunny day he was captivated by the place and the sense that van Gogh’s brilliance of artistic expression was still there: in the walls, the furniture, the gardens, the olive trees, and, of course, the paintings. Dad told me he felt so at peace there, like someone was hugging him, and it became an unexpected highlight of his trip that year.

  I now feel that way as I sit in Dad’s chair or visit his bedroom and library. As one artist tells a story with layers of thick, colourful paint, Dad told us stories every day, and was always looking for another one to add to the bookshelves of his life.

  Surrounded by his collections of books, bookmarks, pins, and pens, each item is attached to a memory and has great meaning. He never kept an item without significance, and we moved through our lives with him, seeing the stories develop before our eyes, now, with the responsibility and honour of treasuring them.

  The pen which lay next to the guestbook at his funeral – used to record messages of love for Mum and the family – is made of wood from one of Dad’s apple trees; just another subtle way he made every day, every action, and every gift a deeply meaningful one for all of us.

  Perhaps in the retelling of these stories, we, too, will continue to find a warm hug waiting for us, a comforting gesture from our father to help us heal from his loss.

  Christmas was, without a doubt, Dad’s favourite time of year. He was always searching throughout the year for just the right gift for each of us. He did this, in my opinion, not for some materialistic reason, but out of the desire to show us that he listened and that he cared.

  He cherished each of our individual interests, wishes, and desires, and to find something truly special for each of us was his way of saying how much he respected us, how he was telling us, “Please, do not change. You are perfect the way you are.”

  This love of Christmas and of giving has certainly rubbed off on me. As my fiancée, Jacqueline, can attest, I have a hard time taking down the tree by Valentine’s Day. And although none of us can yet imagine how this coming season will transpire without him at the festive helm, I can make this promise to my father, as can my brother, Jason, that we will keep his love of that time of year alive and pay him respect not by mourning him, but by remembering the many Christmas mornings he gave us, and by doing our best to make those times magical for our own children throughout our lives.

  My father never sought the spotlight. He was inherently shy, introverted and, at times, even insecure. It is these qualities I respect most about my father because they made his many accomplishments all the more meaningful to me, as he challenged himself each day to work, create, and parent with the purest of intentions. He worked for the love and challenge of it. For a need to help people and for a need to stimulate his mind.

  He took photographs of nature, his family, and his travels for us to cherish later, capturing moments in time and natural beauty that spoke to him. He was an excellent photographer. But literally thousands of undeveloped photographs remain in boxes, as he was more interested in the act of creation and getting something meaningful recorded than to showcase the prize itself.

  He wrote beautiful poetry to capture emotions he could share with his family, never desiring to be published, although so many would say his compositions were worthy of such an honour.

  He did nothing for credit. He never showed off in any way. He was humble and modest. He was a person who helped people from inside a small radiologist’s office.

  I can remember visiting him as a child and walking into his dark office, lit only by the X-ray light boxes hanging from the wall. It was always cool in there, and the eeriness of the flat light and skeletal images hanging on his viewing desk often made me feel uneasy when I was very young.

  But the more I visited him, the more I realized this room was the place where my father did his work, work that was so difficult and mysterious to me. He saw things in those grey and black photographs few people could see.

  Jason recounted a story that occurred many years ago when Dad was at Stadacona. A film came in front of him and he went through his usual procedure, finding nothing. After a short time, he felt odd about it and went for a second look. Again, he found nothing and reported his findings. But something was nagging at him. Something felt wrong. He carefully examined the image for a third time, staring at every minute detail.

  Then he saw something. A tiny irregularity. Something so small it probably shouldn’t have been noticed. But my father reported it, further tests were ordered, and that patient was able to seek the necessary treatment for cancer early enough to make a full recovery.

  I wonder where that person is now and if they ever knew the name Roger Flinn: the name of the doctor who sat in that small, chilly, darkened office – whose meticulous nature, trained mind, and patience helped save their life.

  For all of us, Dad represented knowledge and learning. Constantly reading, he was on a lifelong quest to understand everything he could about our physical world, the universe, the afterlife, and the most complex puzzle of all: the mystery of the golf swing. His ability to retain information was incredible, and he took great joy in wowing us with facts that would boggle our minds.

  Despite his brilliance and ability to understand so much about the world, we didn’t always agree. Both Jason and I challenged him from time to time on many things – quite often his cynical nature and occasional grumpiness.

  Jason, in particular, always had the ability to reach my father and make a deep impact on the way he saw the world. My role, in many ways, was to take risks and do things well outside Dad’s comfort zone. But from day one, both of our parents embraced our personalities and supported every decision we made.

  What more can anyone ask for than the encouragement and respect from a parent, even when they are questioning and worrying, as any good parent does? That is the household in which Jason and I grew up – full of love and support, witnessing hard work and dedication with humility and grace, and being able to grow as individuals. All with the knowledge that our parents would have our backs. So selfless. So generous. And so brave.

  Words cannot express our gratitude to both
of our parents.

  The family Dad loved was growing. When Jason married Caroline, he now had a daughter to cherish and, in some ways, entertain with silliness and bad jokes. He was forever grateful for the three amazing gifts Caroline gave him in Jack, Charlie, and Lily, the three most exceptional children any of us have ever met.

  He had also embraced my lovely Jacqueline, and even though their relationship was a little younger, I know he considered her a daughter. He loved her purely and had tremendous excitement for what the future holds.

  I truly believe he has looked down upon both of his daughters with awe and appreciation, witnessing the care and support these women have shown his boys and his wife.

  In the past few years, Dad had realized so many lifelong dreams. He loved rivers and always wanted to experience a Danube River cruise. He and Mum had that dream holiday in 2010.

  He wanted to play golf on the Old Course in St. Andrews, being a passionate lover (and often hater) of the game. Is it not another sign of the poetry that was Dad’s life that his final round of golf would be with me on the Old Course last fall? If either of us had known the significance of that moment, as we removed our hats and shook hands on the eighteenth green, perhaps we would have stopped to savour it a little longer. But we did savour it in our own special way, and that will forever remain one of the most meaningful days of my life.

  Maybe above all, he wanted to take his grandchildren to Disneyworld. In many ways there is no more fitting a tribute in his final weeks than to be in that magical place with Mum, Jason, Caroline, Jack, Charlie, and Lily – smiling from ear to ear with a dark tan, wispy silver hair, and the biggest smile I think I have ever seen on his face.

  I know Dad will always be with us and I say this to him: I want to tell you to be at peace; to live happily and without pain; to seek the answers which troubled you; and to satisfy your curiosity about all things. But above all, do not worry about us. For you leave behind a family that is strong and united. A family who loves one another and will care for each other the way you cared for us. A family that enjoys being together – a family of best friends. When time spent at a dinner table or a birthday party is not a chore or inconvenience in a busy schedule, but a joyful occasion that will always be, in some part, a tribute to you.

  Jason and I could not be prouder to have had you by our side all these years. We never felt alone as you were always there to lead us through troublesome or confusing times.

  You did it right, Dad. Thank you, for everything. We love you. And we promise to walk the roads ahead showing the same love, support, and respect you showed us.

  It will be an honour to strive each day to live a life as good as yours, and to go to bed each night comforted by your memory and hoping in my heart that you are looking down from above and feeling proud.

  A Navy Man’s Daughter

  Karen Forrest

  My father, Ron Doucette, serving with the Royal Canadian Navy, was posted to Halifax, Nova Scotia, where I was born in 1966. Dad started off his illustrious military career as an engineer (stoker in military slang), on HMCS Bonaventure, a Majestic class aircraft carrier. As a young child, I knew my father was on big grey ships, fixing engines and putting out fires as a firefighter and away for months at a time. By the time I turned eight, my father remustered (switched military trades) and became a military police officer (MP). Then I remembered Dad working shift work, driving me around in a police car, and knowing that I had no chance of getting into serious trouble as a teenager because I didn’t want my father arresting me. Following my father’s footsteps, I joined the military in 1989, first working in communications then remustering to mental health nursing.

  My first vague memories of my father centred on greeting him at the Halifax navy dockyards after his return from sea. Mom would usher us young girls (me and my sisters Lesa and Rhonda) down to the pier, all dressed up, to greet him. But as Mom recounts, it was at times embarrassing for her. I was so young that I couldn’t quite distinguish my father in uniform. I’d enthusiastically call out, “Hi, Daddy, Hi, Daddy” to all the sailors walking off the plank. The navy men all wore the same uniform, so they all looked similar to me. My mom, completely chagrined, would try and shush me until she spotted my father, then would point out, “That is your dad. Now you can say hi.”

  Fast-forward to my Petawawa, Ontario, posting in 2004. I was shopping at the base store, wearing my combat uniform, combat boots, with short hair, looking like most of the army men. Suddenly this young boy, just over one year old, noticed me, grinned, and unabashedly waved at me, whooping, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” His mother looked up in alarm, realizing that not only was I not his father, but I’m also female. She immediately hushed the boy, who was still waving at me with a big grin on his face, and apologized profusely to me. I laughingly told her not to worry. I certainly didn’t take offense and this incident brought back warm memories of Dad. Plus it’s payback for all the times I embarrassed Mom.

  Old-fashioned letters and postcards were how Dad kept in touch with us during his long months at sea. What helped me feel loved and connected to him, serving far away overseas, was the fact he actually wrote to each of us children individually. I excitedly arrived home from school, seeing the distinct military style letters sitting on the kitchen table. Before I learned how to read, Mom would patiently read my letter aloud. These letters/postcards became even more special once I learned to read them myself. The exotic, colourful postcards were beautiful and adventurous for me to look at. Mine were all addressed to Miss Karen Doucette and included one from Amsterdam where Dad wrote, “Hi Karen, Dad will be home soon now. Be a good girl and have fun. Help Mom. Love, Dad.” A colourful palm tree postcard from San Diego, California, written in 1974, had Dad saying, “Hi Karen, Bet you would like to visit here. They have Disneyland nearby but I never got there. Keep well. Love, Dad.” All the way from St. Croix, Virgin Islands, a gorgeous beach scene with Dad writing, “Hi Karen, Hope you’re having a good time and doing well in school. I’m fine. Love, Dad.”

  Following Dad’s example, while deployed overseas to Israel and Bosnia, with fond memories of his written words, I encouraged other soldiers to send letters/emails addressed to each of their children to ensure they felt special and loved. I also carried on this postcard tradition by sending Dad one on June 10, 1992, from my United Nations tour in Israel: “Dear Dad, Hi there! The navy ship Restigouche is in Haifa, Israel. They’re on exercise and some of the navy guys were up visiting us in Golan Heights. We played baseball against them (I wasn’t on the team because I’m lousy at sports, I just watched) and we won both games. It was nice having them visit us. Had a parade practice this morning for our medals parade. Bye for now. Love, Karen.” I don’t think Dad ever realized how truly memorable his written communication was and how special I felt that he cared enough to write to me from all over the world.

  Of course, half the excitement of Dad’s return from sea was the unique presents I received from abroad. I distinctly remember digging through Dad’s duffle bag, looking for gifts which included a dancing puppet from Mexico, a large conch seashell from St. Thomas, and a rose-smelling rosary from Mexico. Every trip back from sea included the expected large tin of Quality Street candy for the family and a large bottle of Black Tower wine for my parents. During my military tours overseas, I made sure to buy a special gift for my father, including Cuban cigars and dutyfree rum that we shared together upon my safe return to Canada.

  Dad taught me some very practical advice about travelling: Do what the locals do! He regaled me with his story. “I was in a Mediterranean country, eating at a restaurant by the ocean with a few locals. This small black spider crawled across the table and I had no idea if it was poisonous or not. So I watched the locals and as soon as they spotted the spider they jumped up and ran. Within seconds, I was running right behind them. Obviously this wasn’t a docile spider. Another time, in Europe, while drinking at an outdoor café, I spotted a weird-looking red spider. I decided to wait and see th
e locals’ reaction, before I ran off screaming. This time, the waiter simply swiped the spider off the table – no big deal, so I continued to calmly enjoy my drink. Trust the locals, Karen; they know when to run and when not to run. Pay attention to what they do in any given situation.”

  I remembered this sage advice. My husband, Wayne, was on a military United Nations tour to Cyprus, where I visited him for two weeks. One sunny afternoon, eating fresh fish at an outdoor restaurant, this large, ugly bug, resembling a June bug, landed on my shirt. My first reaction was to jump up screaming like a girl, but then suddenly I remembered Dad’s guidance, “Do what the locals do!” I looked around and noticed the waitress calmly flicking off the same bug from her blouse. So I quickly got a grip on my panic and spent the rest of the day easily flicking off the intrusive bugs. To this day, I pay attention to what locals do and mimic their behaviour to avoid looking like an inexperienced tourist.

  I don’t have a smart engineer’s analytical brain like my father, but I can spell, unlike my father. Posted to Air Force Base Greenwood, Nova Scotia, between 1980 and 1984, Dad was a military police officer. He would sit at the kitchen table, typing up his incident reports and holler out to me.

  “Karen, how do you spell delinquent?” From my downstairs room, I’d bellow back the correct spelling. I’d hear the old-fashioned typewriter clicking away and then two minutes later Dad would impatiently call out, “Karen, how do you spell incorrigible?” I’d offer up the proper spelling and then two minutes later, “Karen, how do you spell raucous?” By this point I would become impatient with the disruption to my homework and yelp back, “Hey, Dad, why don’t you use your dictionary?” “Why should I? That’s what you’re for!” was always Dad’s quick response. This was the good old days before computer spell-check existed and I acted like a human dictionary for all my father’s extensive police reports.