One reader’s love story for the pages
Toronto man’s obsession with clipping articles from the Star becomes his family’s ritual
My parents are celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary this month. Four children, five grandchildren and one great-grandchild later, and they’re still solid. Solid as a rock. Only one issue has almost split that rock asunder. My dad has been having a love affair of sorts in full view of my mum. This consummate love affair goes on in the kitchen, the TV room and is spread all over the patio table in the summer. No vacation or outing is complete without the “mistress” tagging along.
My dad is seriously in love with the Toronto Star.
Over the years, my mum has been mighty jealous of the newspaper that steals so much of my dad’s attention.
The ritual goes something like this: my dad puts on the coffee and then opens the front door to get the paper that has been delivered to the house for more than 50 years. (I’m sure his heart skips a beat as he unfurls the newspaper and catches sight of the iconic blue banner.) He hands my mum her coffee and the section with the daily crossword, and takes off with the rest. They will still be picking over it in the evening, swapping sections, while the TV commercials are on mute.
The last time I came to Toronto to visit, before I’d even had my first cup of coffee, my mother started shooting questions at me while engrossed in the crossword. “What’s the first name of a singer who has a song about Marilyn Monroe?” “Elton?” Pause. “Yeah, that fits.” And back at it. Not a “Thanks,” or “Can I get you any breakfast?” I tell you, I’m starting to get jealous of all the attention the Toronto Star gets in that household. But, alas, every morning, there’s usually one or two or 10 articles laid out on the kitchen table labelled with my dad’s unique writing: “For Andrea.” It’s like waking up to a Christmas stocking every day. My mum reads me Ellie’s advice and any articles she finds interesting. Basically, my dad cuts. My mum recites.
I’m now living in B.C., and when my mum calls, she inevitably reads me something of interest from the Toronto Star, finishing up with, “Oh, I’ll just mail it to you.” “No, Mum! I’m still working through the pile of articles dad gave me to read on the plane home from my last visit. I almost got charged an excess baggage fee. Remember, we can go online now.”
Another call home: “Mum, where’s Dad? I have to ask him something.” “Oh. You know.” “No, I don’t.” “In the basement!” “Oh. Dad’s in heaven,” I say sarcastically.
My dad, the Toronto Star and a mug of coffee in the private recesses of the downstairs bathroom. I mean, what more is there to life?
“OK, don’t disturb him. I’ll call back in a couple of hours.”
In May, my dad had to go to Sunnybrook Hospital 38 times for treatment for a health issue. He took the TTC, over an hour each way. I came “home” for Active Daughter Duty to help and offered to drive him there. “NO, no, no!” my dad protested. My mum, who has lived with this man for almost 60 years, explained: “Your father likes having the time on the bus to read his newspaper in peace.”
It’s never been “the” newspaper, always “his” newspaper.
Every night, my 85-year-old dad packed his bag for his Sunnybrook outings: water bottle, snack, wallet, and — with gleeful anticipation — all the sections of the Toronto Star he hadn’t got to that day.
When I lived overseas, I’d receive bloated envelopes of snail mail from my dad, stuffed with Toronto Star clippings. Riding the occasional waves of homesickness, I’d gobble up those articles like a box of assorted chocolates after a strict diet. He’d cover my every interest: Articles on education, how to find a man when I was single; and articles on relationships when I was in one. Articles on the environment, well-written columns to inspire me to write my own; book reviews, author reviews, gymnastics and, from the Travel section, anything on any country I’d ever lived in or travelled to. And any article on cats. He’d send articles to keep me up to speed on the Canadian political climate while I was off living in someone else’s political backyard. And fearing I was losing touch with my hometown, any articles on To- ronto. Yeah, I know.
Eighteen years ago, my dad, getting technologically sophisticated, sent me a fax of a Toronto Star classified ad for a well-paid job teaching English in Hong Kong high schools. I ended up teaching there for three years. My dad even came to visit. My mum stayed behind, just wanting to have the house all to herself for the first time in more than half a century. “Without his newspaper all over the place!”
I immigrated to Australia and bought a house there with my Hong Kong savings. When my parents came for a visit, I showed them around the house. “Mum, you know how dad clutters the house with Toronto Star clippings and it drives you bonkers?” She nodded wearily. “Well, just think. If dad didn’t have a fetish to read the Toronto Star from front page to obituary, he wouldn’t have come across that job ad and I’d never have been able to afford this house.”
My dad smiled proudly. Finally redeemed for his devotion to his One and Only — his newspaper.
Happy 60th Anniversary, mum and dad!
I’ve learned a lot from you both, and from 36 years of Toronto Star clippings that you’ve sent to me since I left home. And here we are! Inside the Star. Dad, go get the scissors! Andrea Darvill is a freelance writer, professional storyteller, and English teacher who lives with her fiancé in Kootenay area of B.C.