On
Wednesday, November 17, 2010, the weather was chilly and cloudy, typical for
late fall in Miramichi. Historical websites reported that no notable events
occurred on this date. But at 4:20 p.m., my oldest brother, Norman and I
were present as history unfolded for our family. We sat on either side of our
father's bedside while Norman comforted him with quiet reassurances as I held
his hand. His breathing became ragged, eventually, the only sound in the room
was the clicking of the clock.
I
looked at the body that once was our dad, John Dolan. His bear paw hands were
still rough as sandpaper. I thought of him tossing me effortlessly as a young
child into the air. His face and arms held a tan from the previous summer
sitting on the veranda overlooking his beloved Miramichi River. We were in the
living room, which was renovated for a sleeping area. In its last role, it
held many warm memories. Dad's "modified" Christmas trees had stood,
tied to the wall to prevent them from falling. As youngsters, we held no notice
of the crooked tree and the fading decorations. Our imaginations conjured
images of extravagant gifts, including GI Joes and talking dolls. The reality
of simple presents on Christmas morning did not lessen our joy. As kids, we
knew nothing of Dad's sacrifices to buy even basic gifts. Seven children and
his mother had to be fed and clothed. Our house was over a century old and
showing its age. With few tools and less ability, Dad struggled to keep it
together. We may have complained about some of our clothes but knew we
were loved. As a small boy, I would sneak past my brothers and sisters after
supper to join Dad on the couch. I would snuggle into him as he read his paper,
and if I were lucky, we would fall asleep, me safe and secure in his arms.
Many
of us view our parents through a narrow lens, seeing them mainly as caregivers
and nurturers. We often overlook the individuals they were before we entered
their lives. They may have set aside their dreams and goals to ensure that we,
their children, could pursue ours. I occasionally asked Dad about his father
and life as a youngster, but his brief responses were not much help. My father
treated words like chocolates. He savoured and consumed them sparingly.
Dad's
father died of sepsis when my father was fourteen. His mother carved out a
living taking in boarders and raising a few farm animals. Despite the hardship,
she insisted he stay in school beyond the usual Grade eight level. Dad
went on to complete High School. In 1940 he joined the masses of young men and
women who took up arms against the Nazi repression. After the war, he returned
to Miramichi and met a young nurse. John struggled to overcome his shyness and eventually
won Rita Ramsay's love. The two married and settled into the Dolan Homestead in
Nelson. Dad spent most of his adult life working at the village lumber and
plywood mills as a wood scaler and then as a company bookkeeper. We didn't own
a car. I recall many evenings as a child sitting on our fence post, waiting
impatiently for my dad to walk up the road from work. Sometimes, I would sneak
away from Mom and run to meet him. This was our time together as I told him of
the day's event.
Dad's
own story to this point is not unique or exceptional. But it was meaningful to
many, including the citizens of Nelson. Residents heard the new gospel of
shared ownership and responsibility from Dad and other leaders. The results
were astounding. They included the establishment of Beaubear Credit Union and
Co-op as well as a Cooperative housing project. Dad's greatest gift to his
community was leading the construction of a regional high school. He and the
parish priest, Father Ryan, marshalled the required resources and support that
made education possible for Nelson kids and the surrounding communities.
Dad lived a quiet and humble life.
One summer evening, we sat on his veranda watching a spectacular sunset
perfectly mirrored on the great river. I asked him why he gave up so much of
his free time, often at the expense of his family; his response was typically
direct;
"It was expected of anybody fortunate
enough to be educated that they would give back to the community who supported
them."
I am immensely proud of and loved my
father. But our story was, at times, a lonely and frustrating one for me. The
little boy who fought for quiet times with his father struggled to find his
place in a world he was not sure wanted him. Sexual identity does not suddenly
appear. It is sewn into our genetic makeup and manifests from our first smile
or tear. I could not express the alienation I felt as a child, but I needed to
be comforted in my journey of self-discovery. I spent my youth and part of
adulthood in a circle of self-doubt and fear. My father could not support me in
my struggles. He wrestled with depression throughout his own life. The
education that was supposed to bring him freedom resulted in his self–gondage to a community that never acknowledged his contribution.
I took up my father's leadership
burden as a young man. One of the projects I worked on was in education. The
result was a community college campus built in the Miramichi region. I was
starting on Dad's well-worn path. Subconsciously, I was seeking his attention
and approval. I got neither. A truism I learned helps explain my response to
Dad's absence. "Those whose love we wanted but didn't get, we emulate
them. What we know of manhood is through our fathers."
Eventually,
I got off the hamster wheel of seeking approval from others. Learning to accept
and love me has taken a lifetime. Dad's lesson for me was, "Life is
neither bad nor good. What a person does with their life defines the richness
or poverty of our existence." He and I did our best with the tools we had
in our lives. I have experienced richness beyond what I anticipated, and I owe
Dad for much of that.
The night my father died
there was a great wind. It came from the South West, unusual for November a
relief from the cold. I stood on the deck and watched a full moon play hide and
seek with big beautiful cumulus clouds. They flew by like musical notes in a
silent symphony. I felt Dad’s presence and could imagine him dancing like a
whirling dervish, throwing off all mortal trials and tribulations, truly alive.
