Pop 89: Harold turns 90

By Madonna Hamel
madonnahamel@hotmail.com

My dad turned 90 on Monday. I pause to absorb that fact because as recently as November, he was in the Kelowna ICU with a severe case of sepsis and my sister called to warn me he might not make it through the night. I suggested she call the priest to give him his last rites, being that he’s a practicing Catholic, and the priest assured her he’s already had a few last rites, but he’d come anyway. As things turned out, his church family surprised him with a cake this week after morning mass.

Dad didn’t always live in Kelowna, but throughout our childhoods, he drove us from Prince George, Pulp and Paper Capital of the World, to The Four Seasons Playground to spend glorious summer vacations, swimming and dozing under massive, heaving weeping willows.

It was his dream to move us to that fertile land, to build a house to my mother’s specifications, with enough land for a prairie-sized garden and a swimming pool. And he did just that. And instead of gagging on the sulphur smell of two paper mills every morning, we woke to the sweet scents of fruit blossoms and the wild racket of a dozen varieties of birds.

I hasten to say, however, I loved growing up in Prince George. Like every child, if you are allowed room to roam and play and imagine, and you are safe and fed and loved, it really doesn’t matter where you grow up. Life is a playground of possibilities. There was a park behind our house, and dad would often get the local kids to join us in flag football games. He didn’t treat his girls any differently than his son in that respect. We all grew up athletes, rough and ready tomboys; we never shirked at physical work or challenges.

My mother sewed our best dresses when we were little, velvet jumpers with bolero jackets. And we posed politely for family photos. But just as quickly, we were in our pants and shirts, playing in the dirt and mud. You look like a street urchin, a friend once laughed when we compared childhood photos. She wore a crinoline. Her hair was meticulously parted and ringleted. I wore shorts. My hands were covered in mud, and my hair was thrown on my head in an effort to get it out of my face. Kind of like today. I like that little girl. I know and am thankful that my parents let her play in mud, stay out in the rain, and take chances in life.

My father was born near Fox Valley. His birth certificate, like so many of his generation, gives the section and meridian line as his birthplace. It is a point of pride for him. He grew up on a farm surrounded by the farms of cousins and uncles. And he grew up fast. Every one of his relatives tells me he never had a childhood. They also tell me he was “such a good child.” Spookily so. He stepped into the stalwart, helpmeet role for his mother. His own father was often off earning an extra income for the family in jobs at the glassworks, as a doorman at The Cecil Hotel, and a ferry operator.

Harold was a smart kid. In fact, he had a tendency to correct the answers given on provincial exams, especially the math questions. He had - and has - a mind for numbers. Although he’ll admit, his memory for recent events and names is slipping, he still remembers dates and phone numbers. Initially, he (or perhaps his mom?) thought he’d become a priest. But after a short while in seminary, he realized he didn’t have the calling, although he still goes to mass every day. Instead, he became an accountant.

Once, I described myself as the offspring of an opera singer and a used car salesman. It stung my father to be described in that way; he was a partner in a car lot, new and used American cars. He also was a partner in an RV business. But what made both outfits the successes they were was his skill as an accountant and business manager, not sales.

Marvelling at the immense changes I’ve seen over my 64 years, I try to imagine what the world looks like from 90. I see the cell phone, internet, and even computers as fairly recent additions to my life. But I can’t imagine growing up without electricity or central heating. To help me understand the era of my father’s birth, I pull down my favourite reference book: A Timeline of the Modern World. (No, I do not go to google.)

The year my father was born was also the year Johnny Cash and Loretta Lynn, and a whole bunch of other hard-working farm folks were born. Paul von Hindenburg was elected president in Germany, beating Hitler, although the Nazi party was making headway in Prussia, Bavaria and Hamburg. The ballon tire and vitamin D were invented, and Gary Cooper starred in A Farewell to Arms. The Lindberg baby was kidnapped. Al Capone was arrested for tax evasion, and Aldous Huxley published Brave New World.

What confounds me the most is that, in those days, little was known about the events beyond the farm fence. Dad hunkered down and got to work every day. He stood up for his little brother when he got in trouble, and he saved his money all his life to bail out every one of us - children and most of his relatives and a few strangers - at one point in our lives. Dad was a product of his generation: he wasn’t always around, but he did what the era asked of him: He was a Good Provider.

Which is why one story in particular warms me. One dusty day his mom sent him to town to buy himself a hat for school. On the way, he saw a bi-plane flying overhead, a barnstormer selling rides. He came home that late afternoon with no hat. He chose, instead, to slip the surly bonds of earth, if just for a moment, before a long life of nose-to-the-grindstone took over. And his mom just smiled.

Harold is on the left.