Prince Phillip, Yellowknife, my father, 1962
May 31, 2007
T his is a story, former poem, that I read on the final night of Raving Poets. It’s better as a story, I think. The ending is refocused. The feeling of desolation on the road, away from family….comes through in this cut….It still feels a bit choppy but I’m working on it.
M y father is not a storyteller. He lectures, harps, worries, lectures some more, but he most certainly does not tell stories. This fact does not stop him from being a walking, breathing story himself. Maybe someday I’ll use his quirkiness in a novel. Someday. I’m way too close to find him even remotely fascinating right now.
Listen, if something resembling a story falls out of my father it’s usually about a Shriner he knows who’s got prostate cancer, or about a guy who died suddenly of a heart attack or some bizarre disease. Or it might be about a very well attended prayer service, or funeral. “Sam Walters died on Monday,” my father’s voice will say on the answering service. “He was younger than I am. He had lung cancer, just like your mother. I’m going to be working a casino on Friday, all day, so if you want to get a hold of me, call after five.” And it goes on and on. My father stays busy, stays alive, by working bingos and casinos for various charities.
News of all these people I don’t know – the dying and the sick, the Shriners in hospitals – is stuff I don’t care about. I listen because my father is 86 years old, he’s alone, and it’s important to him. But interesting? No. However, last night, something quite odd fell out of my father. I believe it was a tale with no ending, no real beginning – a beautifully pointless story. My father was a salesman who traveled a lot when we were kids. It was hard on my mom, but we persevered. I knew he’d traveled throughout the province – I remember going with him to the mountains a few times – but the Arctic? I had no idea.
We’re at the Bistro, having dinner. I’m on my second Pilsner Urquell and I mention being in Yellowknife, where I recently did some work.
“In 1962,” he says, “I stayed in the only hotel in Yellowknife. I was working for Horne and Pitfield. Prince Phillip stayed in the same hotel the night before. I stayed in the room right next to the one he stayed in.”
Where the hell is this going, I’m thinking.
“The Prince had a black eye,” he says. “The manager of the hotel told me. He pulled me aside and told me Prince Phillip had a black eye.”
“Well, do you think the Queen slugged him,” I ask.
“No,” my father says, “He was up there by himself.”
I know what you’re thinking. It’s not much of a story. Our wiener schnitzel arrives and I think about my father alone in Yellowknife and a thousand other small towns. I wonder about how long this strange half-story had been lying dormant. I used the code word: Yellowknife, and out it came. I try to imagine my father being away from his family for weeks at a time, eating crappy restaurant food day after day. And I think about the bruises, visible or hidden, he might have carried.
5 Comments
1. Mike had this to say: May 31, 2007 ~ 12:44 ~ #
This makes me think of my father. The things he did before I was in the picture, the things he’s done since and hasn’t mentioned to me. He’s a bit of a mystery, and I love him.
2. Thomas had this to say: Jun 01, 2007 ~ 14:52 ~ #
Parents sacrafice quietly, suffer gladly, for their kids. It’s the small print in the word parenthood.
3. Anita had this to say: Jun 02, 2007 ~ 05:08 ~ #
Suffer gladly? I don’t know, Thomas. My oldest girl is fifteen—VERY fifteen. I suffer (we all do), but I don’t know that I am glad about it.
Still, I love her, and I am so glad to be around as she goes through the sometimes painful process (for all of us) of transitioning from the protected space of childhood, to the great elsewhere. I’m glad to be here to help…when she lets me.
4. mary had this to say: Jun 04, 2007 ~ 12:56 ~ #
thomas,
i loved this piece when you read it and when i read it now, it just reminded me how much i loved it.
5. Thomas had this to say: Jun 04, 2007 ~ 13:55 ~ #
Anita,
Ya, I know, I expect it won’t be so “gladly” when Mack is 15. But overall? There are things I do not say — things she does not need to know, things that will just remain behind the scenes, things for her to figure out when she’s 40.
But at the same time, I think it’s important for parents to display, to model, a balanced life — one that included “me” time as well.
Ah, what the hell do I know? ...I’m winging it.
Mary, THANKS
As a poem, this piece seemed unfinished…it wanted to go someplace and now, as fiction…I’ve sharpened the ending — maybe too much. But I like it better now.