Celebrating my parents
I gave some thought to engaging this weekend in further pontification on The Dame and St. Andrew or even the latest member of the miracle-seeking Newfoundland Trinity, Coady the Counting Countess, the latter making her mark this past Monday with a surprisingly non-descript budget.
But, having been reminded by my neurons of affection that we are mid-point between Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, I decided to give politicians and their latest mentor a pass, and write, instead, about two far more important souls.
Of course, I’ve written of my parents in the past, and have sung their praises for their uncompromising love, and for their roles as lifetime co-presidents of my fan club, through thick and thin.
But on this joint celebration of their designated days in the sun, here are some lighter moments of recollection — there are hundreds — with nary a nod to context.
DOG DAYS
Mom was a dog lover, Dad not so much, and Mudder loved to recall their disparate views of four-legged ownership coming to a head, a day when Ranger, their pet in the 1980s, greeted the mailman, as always, with a vicious spat of barking, and proceeded, for the umpteenth time, to haul down the curtains on the front door with destructive lunges.
“Either that dog goes, or I go,” Dad shouted angrily at Mom.
“Well, guess what,” Mom responded with authority. “The dog stays.”
JOKESTER
Dad was an amateur actor (he co-founded the Avion Players theatrical group in Gander), but was always “on stage,” always anxious to get a laugh, like the time he went to see a chiropractor for the first time.
“Would you mind taking off your clothes, Mr. Wakeham?” requested the doctor.
“Jeez, Doc,” Dad replied with a straight face, “don’t you want to go out for drinks and dinner first?”
According to Dad, there were a few awkward seconds before the chiropractor realized he was dealing with a Henny Youngman wannabe.
QUICK QUIPS
Mom’s Placentia Bay genes would manifest themselves out of the blue on occasion with a wonderful expression.
Like the time about a year ago, when I corrected a minor mistake she had made in recalling a name from the past.
“Well, Bob, I didn’t knock ‘er down,” Mom said. “But I sure enough staggered ‘er.”
STRANDED
During a summer in the 1970s, Dad and Mom were making one of their regular visits to Newfoundland, and a strike by air traffic controllers in the States forced Dad, who had work commitments, to leave Mom here (she wasn’t disappointed), rent a car and drive across the island, with a plan to take the ferry to the mainland, and head to New Jersey from there.
Unfortunately, weather problems kept him stranded in Port aux Basques for days. And one night, he and Dick Stamp, a close Gander friend he had bumped into, decided to head to a nearby club. Dad absolutely loved to dance, and, according to his retelling of what happened that evening, he looked around to find a woman “of my vintage” to have an “innocent” scuff, nothing more, nothing less.
“So I approached this middle-aged woman, and politely asked her if she would care to take to the dance floor,” Dad said.
According to Dad, his prospective dance partner appraised him from head to foot, and replied with disdain: “Not f .... ing likely.”
Dad’s ego took a colossal hit.
Another day during that desperate attempt to cross the Gulf, a local resident, overhearing Dad’s constant whining about his travelling conundrum, offered up this classic bit of advice: “God almighty, b’y, you’re soundin’ like a real Yank. Why don’t you give us all a break, stick a stamp on your arse, and jump in the mailbox.”
HOCKEY MISHAP
Mom was on a rare solo visit to Newfoundland in the winter of 1989, or thereabouts, and the two of us were attending a Baby Leafs playoff game at the old Memorial Stadium. During a break, she reminded me, not for the first time, that she was at a game at Gander Gardens on a night in 1950, eight months pregnant with me. Player Phil Maddigan accidentally fired the puck into the stands, striking Mom in the stomach area. Everything stopped. There was total silence. Maddigan, a family friend, leaped the boards to go to Mom’s aid. Fortunately, she was OK.
“Is it any wonder,” Mom said during that conversation at the Stadium 40 years later, “that you became an avid hockey fan.”
(Less generous observers have suggested the puck struck my head area).
BAD TIMING
Finally, here’s a story that should give the cold (but hopefully amusing) shivers to all adults sheepish about any discussion of their parents’ sex lives, or, in this case, the disconcerting observation of such activities.
Sometime in my mid 20s, during a visit to my parents’ home, I went on a Saturday morning search for my father to go for a coffee, and proceeded to open their bedroom door, unannounced.
They had twin beds at the time. Dad’s was empty. Mom’s was not. Mom desperately pulled the sheets over Dad. But his position was embarrassingly obvious. Mom looked up at me, I looked down at her. Nothing was said for seconds, for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, we had what was undoubtedly the most incongruous exchange we’ve ever had.
“Mom,” I asked, “have you, by any chance, aw, have you seen Dad?”
My incredibly mortified mother replied: “No, actually, Bobby, I haven’t.”
Before bolting the room, I quietly remarked: “Good enough, girl.”
The three of us never spoke of those awkward moments.
But on their 40th wedding anniversary, in front of a packed hall, I told that story.
Mom blushed. Dad smiled. The crowd busted a collective gut.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mudder. Happy Father’s Day, Pa. Thanks for the laughs.
And everything else, the immeasurables.
Hope you’re dancing the night away in the hereafter.