Tunesday : The Living Years

The Living Years

(Robertson, B / Rutherford, M) Performed by Mike and the Mechanics

Every generation

Blames the one before

And all of their frustrations

Come beating on your door

I know that I'm a prisoner

To all my Father held so dear

I know that I'm a hostage

To all his hopes and fears

I just wish I could have told him in the living years

Oh, crumpled bits of paper

Filled with imperfect thought

Stilted conversations

I'm afraid that's all we've got

You say you just don't see it

He says it's perfect sense

You just can't get agreement

In this present tense

We all talk a different language

Talking in defence

Say it loud (say it loud), say it clear (oh say it clear)

You can listen as well as you hear

It's too late (it's too late) when we die (oh when we die)

To admit we don't see eye to eye

So we open up a quarrel

Between the present and the past

We only sacrifice the future

It's the bitterness that lasts

So don't yield to the fortunes

You sometimes see as fate

It may have a new perspective

On a different day

And if you don't give up, and don't give in

You may just be okay

So say it loud, say it clear (oh say it clear)

You can listen as well as you hear

Because it's too late, it's too late (it's too late) when we die (oh when we die)

To admit we don't see eye to eye

I wasn't there that morning

When my Father passed away

I didn't get to tell him

All the things I had to say

I think I caught his spirit

Later that same year

I'm sure I heard his echo

In my baby's new born tears

I just wish I could have told him in the living years

Say it loud, say it clear (oh say it clear)

You can listen as well as you hear

It's too late (it's too late) when we die (it's too late when we die)

To admit we don't see eye to eye

So say it, say it, say it loud (say it loud)

Say it clear (come on say it clear)

Funny that this is where my mind is this week, so let's talk about my Dad. I know I told this story before, but I think it's worth repeating that, according to our family mythology, on the day that I was born, Dad came to the hospital (at the front door of which he had dropped off my mother after she went into labour), he made his way to the maternity ward, took one discomfited look at my exhausted and disheveled mother, and after a brief glance at my own brand new self, declared, "Well, you got your girl." To which my mother laughed incredulously and replied, "Who said I wanted a girl?" I know this is supposed to be a funny story - because ironically, according to Mum, I became my father's favourite (yet I never felt I got any special treatment from him, and by assigning me as Dad's favourite, Mum also implied that I sure wasn't hers) - but I never found it funny. Actually, if I wrote a memoir "Well, You Got Your Girl" would probably be the title for how that attitude shaped my early life and still rankles me today (will I ever actually grow up enough to let go of childhood complaints?). Here's a more recent story:

A couple of weeks ago, Dave and I were at an industry dinner - a gala fundraiser downtown Toronto - and as always at these kind of things, we were at a big table with some people I've met before and some I haven't. Dave was to my left, and to my right was a man about ten years older than me; and as I am just not a small talker, I didn't have much to say to this man and I kept scanning the table for conversations I could add to. Eventually this man, Werner, mentioned in passing that he used to work at Canada Packers, and in that moment, I had to make a snap decision: do I drop my Dad's name or just let it pass? I was bored enough and feeling mischievous enough that I ploughed ahead and said, "Oh yeah? My Dad used to work for Canada Packers." Now, that was a big company in its day, and I could see that Werner was just being polite when he asked, "And who is your Dad?" I nonchalantly replied, "Pat Jones."

Werner's eyes got huge. "Your Dad is Pat Jones? That man's a legend in the industry." I laughed and said that he's a legend in our family, too. Werner got excited and told me this story:

Fresh out of university in 1979, Canada Packers was the first company I applied to. I put on my suit and tie, had my resume professionally printed up, and made my way down to two-two-two St. Clair. I'm sitting with the HR guy, and he's reading my resume, and I'm worrying if my education and experience are up to snuff, and this guy zeroes in on the fact that I played ball in high school. He asks if I can play third base, and I was a short stop but said that I could do third, and he said that was great and that I should follow him. I don't even know if I'm hired at that point, I can't believe it comes down to baseball, and we go to the basement. The first thing I see is Pat Jones - your Dad - and he's screaming at this guy, I see the spittle flying through the gap in his teeth and he's got two meaty fingers that he's jamming into the guy's shoulder. We go around the corner, and there's Art Gibney, screaming at another guy, and I'm thinking to myself, "What the hell? I went to university for this?"

Incidentally, if it was 1979, my father was 32 years old at the time. This was exactly the kind of story that I knew I could elicit, and by bringing up my Dad, Werner and I had something to talk about: he wanted to know about my parents' retirement and what they're up to now, and keeping in mind that Dad would be ticked if I revealed too much of his personal business, I was able to paint a rosy picture of life in the woods of Nova Scotia. I shared this story with Mum on facebook, and when she read it to Dad the next day, he laughed his head off at the fine picture it paints of himself as a young man (he didn't remember a Werner). And Kennedy asked me, "Were you just repeating a story about Pop driving his two meaty fingers into some guy's shoulder?" I needed to reply, "No. This was a new story - it was your Dad who heard about the two meaty finger jabs from someone he had dropped Pop's name to." Needless to say, Werner thought it was hilarious that Pat Jones is Dave's father-in-law.

Since I've written so much about working at Sha Na Na's in Edmonton recently, I'll add that I had a similar experience there. As I said before, it was business as usual to have tipsy men hitting on me at the bar, and one afternoon (I do remember this was long before the evening rush), a couple of young guys in suits were drinking and flirting, and while they weren't exactly obnoxious, they weren't as charming or funny as they thought they were. It eventually came out that they were from Ontario and had come to Edmonton on business for Canada Packers. Again, I knew exactly what I was doing when I said, "Oh yeah? My Dad works for Canada Packers back in Ontario." And again, they knew exactly who Pat Jones was, and not only did they sit up straighter and quit the flirting, but I could tell that they couldn't quite make the picture fit: If I was 22 at the time, then Dad was 42, and as big and imposing as he was, he didn't look old enough to have grown children; these two guys were only a few years older than me, so I'm pretty sure that my Dad didn't exactly look or act like their Dads. They left soon after this exchange.

When I was younger, I spent a lot of time trying to psychoanalyse my parents: they had kids so young that I figured they couldn't help but resent us for stealing their youth; for forcing them to stay together through all the screaming matches. Since my Grampie - my Dad's Dad - was such an abusive man, I figured my father must have learned by example. I actually heard so many awful stories about my Grampie - like him firing a shotgun through the ceiling to where my Grammie was hiding upstairs while Mum tried to keep us kids safe down in the corner of the living room - and I was so personally terrified by him (not just of his gruff manner, but made uneasy by the stroke that half-paralysed him) that I made a lot of excuses for my Dad and decided that he couldn't help but be abusive towards us. It was earth-shattering to me, therefore, when Mum once mentioned in passing that my father was the apple of Grampie's eye; he was never once the target of abuse; he may have witnessed terrible things, but he never experienced any himself. This father of mine, so tight with money that we wore our cheap clothes until they fell apart, was the envy of his town in his Roy Rogers slicker and rain boots. And from that moment on, I've figured my Dad has had no excuse at all for the terror that ruled my childhood.

So, to this week's song choice: I went looking for the right song to sum up what I was feeling, and there are way more "bad Dad" songs than I would have thought. But none of them - from Madonna's "Oh Father" and Everclear's "Father of Mine" to Harry Chapin's "Cat's in the Cradle" - said what I wanted to say; I realised I wasn't looking for a bad Dad song so much as a bad relationship song. "The Living Years" fit the bill, and since it came out in 1989, it sits comfortably in the timeline that I'm talking about. And while I appreciate that the point of this song is to clear up everything while my father is still alive, I know that's never going to happen - he would need to want to talk to me. My last story for the week:

Last Friday was Dad's 70th birthday, and Mum had called me the week before to say that after seeing an episode of How It's Made, Dad told her that watching them make Cornish Pasties gave him a craving, and he asked her if she would make him some special for his birthday. She said that he was feeling blue about turning 70 - and also pointed out to him that she had been blue since she turned 60 - but she said that of course she'd be making him anything he wanted. Mum also said that he didn't want any presents, but he'd be really happy if the girls texted him on his birthday. So, on his birthday, we called Dad in the morning, but just getting the answering machine, all we could do was record "Happy Birthday" and get on with our day. The girls did text their Pop, and got no response. I happened to see my brothers on Sunday, and Ken said that he and his kids called Dad around supper time on his birthday, and Dad answered and listened as they sang him "Happy Birthday" (and Dad could be heard teasing, "This is awful. Ella, you're a little sharp."), but when Ken accidentally hung up and tried to call back to actually talk to Dad, the phone was busy for the next half hour - as though Dad had left the phone off the hook on purpose to avoid talking. Kyler said that he called a couple hours after that, and after talking to Mum (who apparently sounded shaky and off her rocker), Dad talked to him for the longest time, listing off everything that he was angry about (unimportant things, like TV shows). I have no idea if Mum made him his Cornish Pasties. Yeah, things are rosy in the woods of Nova Scotia.

So we open up a quarrel
Between the present and the past
We only sacrifice the future
It's the bitterness that lasts

So say it loud, say it clear (oh say it clear)
You can listen as well as you hear
Because it's too late, it's too late (it's too late) when we die (oh when we die)
To admit we don't see eye to eye

My Dad doesn't want to clear up anything; he would prefer not to talk to us at all. I feel bitterness about my unhappy childhood and I feel bitterness about the fact that my parents have spent my children's childhoods two thousand kilometres away. And as they age and continue to keep their distance from us, I have no idea how I'm going to feel when they die. Sad, of course, but will I really feel like I missed my chance to make amends? I don't think I ever will grow up enough to let go of childhood complaints; I'd rather cling to the mythology that my Dad is a "legend in the industry" and leave his legacy at that.