K and I sat in the quiet summer night exchanging comments on the perfection of the evening, the colour of the sky, and the radiant new white summer dress she was wearing. It was one of those endless summer evenings, the kind where dusk surprises you suddenly around 10:00. Inevitably, the conversation turned to reminiscing. Usually, this involves travel or drinking stories but this evening we spoke of family. K told me of her grandparent’s place, a white clapboard house with an attic only accessible though a ceiling trap-door in the bathroom. Attics in grandparents’ houses are always a mystery, especially because they are going the way of the old red tractor. There is a cavernous, cobwebbed charm hiding among the posts, pillars, and uneven floorboards. I had an interesting perspective on this as my two sets of grandparent’s were from completely different worlds. My Opa and Oma, who lived in small-town Nova Scotia (is there any other Nova Scotia?) had a similar old house, complete with a slightly more accessible attic. My grand-papa and grand-maman, however, had a slightly different place. My two sets of grandparents have never met face to face, which is just as well since they wouldn’t be able to communicate very well. Each of their versions of English would be further watered down as they are broken by two different mother tongues.
My dad grew up in a hotel in Switzerland. His father was a chef in the restaurant of the hotel and his family occupied the upstairs apartment. I can only image how chaotic is must have been to live there. The small town’s still-cobbled streets snaked all around the hotel, laundry and flags waving from the iron balconies above rounded wooden doors with wrought handles and knockers. Every hundred meters or so, a fountain filled a stone basin with once drinkable water used long ago for household washing and watering the horses. We would visit the hotel every time we vacationed with family, and while we never actually stayed there, we did eat their wonderful food.
Sometime after the kids moved out, my grandparents built their dream house on the hillside above the small town, a one hour walk up the winding roads through the vineyards that cut neat geometrical spaces in the steep slope. My grandmother used to make that walk everyday until she finally moved to an apartment in town. Every one of my aunts’, uncles’, grandparents’ and cousins’ houses always felt like home, and most of them are memorable, homey, and well lived. This house was all of things as well, complete with an indoor swimming pool and a fantastic view of the green valley and lake below. At the time it was built, there was nothing but sparse farmhouses, vineyards, and cattle, and it remained that way until just recently when the condos came. The house also had a fantastic attic.
Grandparents’ attics are the keepers of all the relics of parents’ youth. I was never able to get a picture of my dad as a kid. As far as I was concerned, he was an adult his whole life. As well as being a supportive, loving, and loyal father, he was a hard person to read. I always looked up to him and respected him in a way that seems rare these days and he would command the respect of my childhood friends just as easily.
I remember the day he came to pick me up after public swimming. His still-strong Swiss-German accent and constant goatee made an intimidating parent. I was the envy of my class because my dad was the most like Arnold Schwarzenegger, at least compared to the beer drinking hockey dads in our small town Ontario home at the time.
He worked hard his whole life and never let the stresses of his job spill into the family circle. My sister and I were always the envy of our schoolmates because we went to visit my family in Switzerland every second or third summer, and went to Nova Scotia every other year. I think it was important for both my parents that we saw as much of the world as we could. Our vacations to Europe were always about family, and we were never tourists, and I thank my dad for giving us that perspective. It allowed us to make these frequent trips (without the added cost of renting cars, booking hotels, etc...) in the comfort of family and friends and it gave us the chance to appreciate these second homes that were offered to us. It also allowed us to take these seemingly extravagant vacations without the financial burden, which allowed my parents to put their hard earned money towards our educations and other important things. While most people think of Switzerland as an expensive, precise, banking country, we always saw it as comfortable and quaint, a view which extended to the rest of Western Europe as well and greatly aided both my mine and my sister’s post-high-school Euro-trekking phase.
Not only was my dad a great influence on my world-view, but he was also the consummate teacher. For many years, he taught college level courses on tourism, hospitality and management and we would often hear the horror stories about his students. As much as he complained, he really did love the work and his patience extended to his handling of us at home. The biggest complaint my grade school teachers ever had about me was my handwriting. My dad made every effort to help me get over this impediment. I would write a whole page, copied word from word from a French textbook, single spaced, every evening before I was allowed to go outside or watch TV. I must have done this for years, and my handwriting is still completely illegible. But dammit, he tried valiantly and patiently.
I never understood the devotion to perfecting my penmanship until I found my dad’s old school work in my grandparent’s attic. He went to a boarding school from a relatively early age, a common thing at the time and place, and I can just picture the nuns whacking away with their rulers until the students had perfect, precise, Swiss handwriting. My dad’s notebooks were all immaculate with no evidence of any pre-whacking sloppiness. His penmanship was clean and neat, but my favourite thing about it was the slight tight angle he used. His writing always looked like a race car to me. He writes like a doctor these days, and it is only after years of practice that I am able to read anything he writes.
Also among the odds and ends in the attic were old crafts and rusted Meccano sets, evidence of my dad’s hobbies as they exist today. Since I always thought of my dad as an adult, I was forced to imagine his adult self playing with these toys which was never very hard to do. He always took an interest in my remote controlled cars or legos. We would spend whole weekends together in the garage building wooden toys. He did it as a serious hobby and always made his trains, cars, and block-puzzles with the care and craftsmanship expected from the Swiss, eventually bringing his wares to craft sales. Every so often, I would get the inspiration to make something out of wood myself, and he always helped with a patient hand and a perfectionist eye. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle phase saw him help me make wooden versions of all of those popular ninja weapons, including an awesome sword I still have at my parent’s place. Each project was carefully laid out, planned, measured and finished and we would show mom out days work with pride – his as much as mine.
My greatest attic find was at the most unlikely teenage time. In grade 10, smack in the middle of the grunge years, I found my dad’s old army boots from his mandatory military service. Everyone at school was wearing plaid shirts, army pants, and eight-hole Doc Martins, and an old pair of Swiss military boots were the perfect accessory. At a time when you start to wonder about how well your parent’s really understand you (a period lasting about four or five years), these boots were like an old leather crystal ball.
The boots had been collecting dust in the attic for at least 20 years and were solid blocks of hard leather. I had only one week to work them into wearable shape because they were too heavy to pack in our luggage, and I would have to wear them on the plan home. It turns out that the boots were extra heavy because of the metal plate in the soles, designed to protect the foot from nails and rudimentary land mines, which made going through customs a lot of fun. We went out and bought various leather restoration creams and polishes and I spend every free moment working the leather to its old, lustrous, supple shape.
I was amazed by the idea that my dad had been in the army. I could picture him cleaning these boots with the same devotion he used when he would clean and shine his dress shoes every Sunday. I always envied the way my dad would go about these regular systematic rituals, whether it was saving for trips, working on projects with his son, or the routine household duties he would undertake. He did everything with a quiet confidence and patience and never showed any outward signs of the worldly problems or concerns he might have had.
The boots were worn at school for most of the fall and winter. I would work the leather every few weeks trying to keep them in shape. Despite all my efforts, the boots never got back to their original state, and they were always much too large for me. In the end, I stopped wearing them and they now sit in my parent’s basement, waiting for the next young large footed family member to pick them up, dust them off, and try them on for size. I may even do it myself one of these days to see if have grown into his shoes, after all I’ve had almost ten years of growth since then. But I have a feeling that I’ll never be snug and secure in them, no matter how many wool socks and insoles I use. They are noble boots from a time long gone, built to last and despite their age they are still very wearable and will come in and out of fashion from time to time. I can only hope that I leave such large shoes to fill for my children.
This weekend marks both my dad’s birthday and father’s day. I don’t think it is mentioned enough, but I am very proud to have a father like him as both a role model and a father. I wish him the best of luck in the coming years, which will see both retirement and freedom from his dependents.
With love and warm thoughts, Dad, happy birthday.
Your son, D.
in the last week. First, a brief shout-out to the millionaires of the Edmonton Oilers who earned every penny this spring. It seems Canada will have to wait a few more years until the Canadiens get their act together before we can have a homecoming for the Cup. And no, the Senators will not win it anytime soon. Neither will the Leafs, despite the 40 years of waiting.
in the last week. First, a brief shout-out to the millionaires of the Edmonton Oilers who earned every penny this spring. It seems Canada will have to wait a few more years until the Canadiens get their act together before we can have a homecoming for the Cup. And no, the Senators will not win it anytime soon. Neither will the Leafs, despite the 40 years of waiting.