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Clouds of white smoke sat still, as though frozen on the tops of chimneys. Shivering, but not feeling the cold, I stood by the front window of Campbell's Drug Store, just down the street from Drury's Meat Market, my parents shop. An illuminated clock with the smiling Alka Seltzer kid lit the back wall of the pharmacy; a blue Royal Bank calendar hung beneath it. I looked at the watch my mother had just given me for my fourteenth birthday. Both time-pieces read the same. It was five o'clock in the morning. The date on the calendar showed February 18th, 1966. I took a heavy draw off the cigarette in my hand, gagged and threw up a little. A bubble of snot burst from my nose and blended with the tears that ran down my face. I threw the cigarette towards the reddish sky and pleaded with the sun to stay hidden. Then I screamed and swore. Distant dogs wailed in response.
The previous day I had come home from school to find my mother resting on the chesterfield in the living room at the back of our butcher shop. She was covered in a woolen blanket. I'd never seen her rest during the day. Twelve-hour workdays were normal with my family – rest came only at bedtime. She got up finally and made dinner for my father and me. Hamburger stew and mashed potatoes – comfort food. Later, in silence we ate our dinner as the television filled the dining room with animated chatter. Life was normal again.
Thursday nights were my father's once a week outing – a night of 5-pin bowling. For my mother and me, Thursday night was television night. Gunsmoke, with Matt Dillon, Chester Good and Miss Kitty at 8:00 p.m., Eliot Ness and The Untouchables at nine, then the very scary Thriller, introduced by Boris Karloff at ten. I knew that she couldn't have cared less for Matt, Miss Kitty, or Boris, but she always watched with enthusiasm. Mid-way thru the evening my mother said she wasn't feeling well and was going to bed. Thriller was my favorite of the three Thursday night shows, but staying up by myself was out of the question. The show scared the crap out of me. The exact words that were exchanged over the next few minutes aren't important. Even if I could remember them I wouldn't want to. I only know that the last words I spoke to my mother were in selfish anger.
I awoke the following morning at 4:50 a.m. All the lights in the house were on. My father looked at me and said simply, "your Mom's dead." Without a word I walked to her bedroom and stared in. She lay on her front – her left arm hung slightly off the edge of the bed. When I turned my father wasn't there.
I quietly dressed, then pulled on my coat. On my way out the door I bumped into Doc Jones. He was whistling a cheerful tune as we crossed paths. “You're too late,” I said. Or maybe it was the wet, rapid, volley of slurred bitterness that came first. The doctor stopped whistling.
My father wanted to open the store that morning. Where would people get their meat, bread and fresh vegetables if the store stayed closed? Part of me wanted him to open the doors – maybe the familiar smell of fresh cured bacon would make this morning go away. Friends and relatives talked him out of it.
No one knew what to do with me so I was shoved into a car with my Uncle Edgar and sent to Toronto to pick up my two elderly aunts, Lilly and Alice. The old women took turns holding me;
they stared at me for great lengths of time and cried the entire way back to Tottenham. We were all very Irish Catholic and I was sure that at least one of us would turn to stone or rock-salt during the 40 miles that seemed to take forever.
I grew up real fast that morning. I learned to smile and say thank you to an endless procession of mourners. Some I knew, most I'd never seen before. All of them joined in the need to tell me how sorry they felt. And on that day I also learned to cry in secret. Every night and only at night, in darkness, without a sound, always alone. I grew up real fast that morning. Everyone told me so, told me how brave I was.
In the months that followed I learned to live like a stray dog. Most of my meals came right from the can. As my father cut the pork chops and minced the hamburger; other adults looked at me with worry. I learned to smile back at them reassuringly, with the words “b***** off” teetering on the edge of my tongue. f*** them. All I needed was a can opener and a fork. Sockeye salmon, Irish stew and rice pudding was my daily diet. After my meal the can went right into the garbage – I wiped the fork off on my pants.
Life is for the living my father might have wanted to say to me. Or maybe he would have liked to have said, pack your bags and get out. Who knows? We didn't talk. He did what he did and I did what I did. We never spoke of my mother again and that was just fine with me. I didn't want him or anyone else of this world to know how I felt. During the day as I went about in my feral ways, I didn't think of my mother. But at night, when the lights went out, she was all mine.
Over the years, my father's ways softened. He seemed to smile more, talk more. Even though he and I never so much as shook hands, Elenka would get a smile and a hug as we left after a visit to the old homestead. Sometimes even a tear would run down his cheek as we left, she told me. A week this past Sunday he phoned me just to say that he hadn’t heard from me in a while. I moved away from home in 1973. That call was the first of its kind.
47 years and a day after my mother died, my father, while walking into the bathroom fell, banged his head and passed out. He never regained consciousness. He died at the dear old age of 90. During his time in the Tottenham business community he was known by all and was well respected. When he wasn’t working in the store he worked on his car, or his home, or on one mechanical implement or another. On warm summer nights he could often be found sitting in his car, listening to a baseball game on the radio. None of his practical skills rubbed off on me, just an interest in baseball. He even built the home he retired to, where he died.
A decision was made by those closer to him than I, to by-pass western society's funerary ritual. My father's remains were sent directly to a crematorium. No casket, no place for friends to pay their last respects. I never thought I’d be overly upset when my father died. But the events of the past few of days changed that. I do still have tear ducts and they're working almost as well as they did 47 years ago.
Rest In Peace : Albert Drury – Died February 19th, 2013
Florence Drury (nee Sullivan) – Died February 18th, 1966
- comments
Dianne I'm so sorry Jack.
Lina Jack this is really, really good. You should write more. I am trying to write my memoirs, but I am not as good as you. Take care. Lina
dansar We're really sorry. Our thoughts are with you.
Maryd I am so sorry Jack. My tears are flowing as I write this. Your words brought back so many memories of those Tottenham days. May your father rest in peace.
Maria Lopez-Pevide Jack, you are a wonderful writer. So sorry to hear of your loss. Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Mandy (Wales) Thank you for sharing this so beautifully and tenderly Jack. Deep loss... my heart goes out to you.
Leta & Neil Jack, our sincere condolences for your loss. Take care.
Margo We join a special club when we lose both of our parents. It's something difficult for me to put into words, I'm not as gifted as you that way. No matter how old we are when we become orphaned, it's always too soon. Our parents make such and impact on who we are and who we are yet to become. We learn that they weren't perfect and as much as we try, we never will be either. What we can learn is to understand who they were and to know that they did do the best that they could, or all that they knew how to give. An imprint is left on each of us and all of those that crossed their paths. You'll have many nice memories and sometime you'll catch yourself laughing, or at the least smiling. It will take you by surprise. Big hugs coming your way. Margo
Manuel Thank you Jack for sharing such deep felt moment with us.Our feelings go out to you. May you be at peace.Please be well.Sincerely,Manu and Gaby.
Angel Eden I have a published author friend who also does a memior class. I will be attending on Thurs here in Laguna Beach Willl think of you....both Love Ang
Don & Melinda Jack our deepest sympathies.
Val Dear Jack, My deepest sympathy. I'm thinking of you these days and thank you for sending this. I keep a quote that I've had for many years taped in my in my daytimer. I'd like to share it with you: "Three things are fundamental to an understanding of mourning. First, each loss launches us on a inescapable course through grief. Second, each loss revives all past losses. Third, each loss, if fully mourned, can be a vehicle for growth and regeneration." V.D. Volkan, M.D. It's early days, but I here's to regeneration through your writing and through the trips that you take with Ellen and through your friends. Love to you and Ellen, Val
Annabella Mendonca Jack, I'm so very sorry for your loss. I wish you peace and comfort during your time of mourning. My thoughts are with you. Hugs, Annabella
Mike Doyle , mikedoyle2797@roger Jack I read your blog about Tottenham and your memories. My condolenses. I got the blog from my sister Mary and showed to Karen and Charlie & Cash Horan. It was very touching. You're A good writer. Charlie has no cmputer so he wants me print out your blogs for him. How can I follow your blogs? Thanks Jack.
Donna Graystone Jack I am so sorry to hear of your loss, my thoughts and prayers are with you
Joan Thomson What a beautiful story this is! Some of my earliest memories as a child were shopping in Tottenham with my Mother. I remember very well Ab Drury standing behind the meat counter at his store, wearing his big white apron. I was very small so looking up at him behind that glass enclosure where the meat was kept, he seemed a giant of a man. He wore little expression on his face when we visted his store, never smiled and now I know why. I always knew he was a kind man though and sometimes, if we were lucky, he would give my Mother and I a quiet hint of a smile. Thank-you for sharing your story, Jack. R.I.P. Ab Drury
Wayne Alexander Let me start by saying sorry for your losses. (Our Loss) As he was my father as well. Please be assured that it was Ab's wish to be cremated and followed through with, and not the others who you may believe took on that task. Like most families, there are those who do not believe that the right choice is being made. This is were we as the children of this family should take a step back and believe in our parents for making the right choice for themselves.Ab was very important in my life as he was to you in yours.These last few years, I struggled with not being able to come back for a visit, more so in these last few months, as i was made aware of his failing health. In the end I made that journey back to Tottenham to pay my respect to a Man who I am and will forever be proud to call him my Father. I understand you have closed a door, and in case you choose to leave it this way here is something from my heart. A FatherI knew a Man who was quite greyI knew this man would leave one dayInto our lives, he would arriveThis Man one day taught me to driveI speak of Ab, who became my FatherHe had a son, but had no daughterLife would change, as he soon knewHe told my Mom I'll Marry YouThrough all his life He worked so hardBuilt a home in their new yardThe train went byThey went so fastAnd now his life is in the pastHe's left this worldin our trustHis body now dust to dustIn the end he's pulled us throughBut without you I'am sad and blueA Son Wishing you the utmost best in life your step brother
Steve and Brigitte Dear Jack,We extend our heartfelt condolence to you and Ellen.Your beautifully written account of family memories was deeply moving.
Vickie I just read this for the 6 - 7th time. And I can assure you, Jack, that my tear ducts are working quite well too. Sorry to take so long to comment and send condolences Northward. You know: life gets in the way sometimes. It stepped aside this morning. I've been traveling vicariously with you and Ellen since we met in Costa Rica, through your blogs. Sometimes your pictures, as beautiful as they are, aren't even necessary because you have such a way with words. I am there. The same is true with this narrative of three lives. Especially yours. I feel as if I'd known you as a child growing up. Lovely, poignant, bittersweet. And these two photos? Each a story. Gosh, Jack - you look so much like your (smiling) Dad. ...so glad his interest in baseball rubbed off on you (as well as his good looks)! May he rest in peace. You: take good care. Carry on. You're living a good and enviable life because of, or in spite of him. Love also is being sent from Pablo, Wrigley and Fenway. L - Vic
Joe Maddaloni Jack, I am really sorry to hear about the loss of your father. My sincerest condolences. Sounds like Tottenham has lost a prominent member of the community. I am certain he will be missed.
Irene That is an amazing story, so well written with love, and compassion. Your words truly are the window to your soul, and what a lovely picture it is. Thank you for sharing.