Dad worked at Stelco full-time, but he always had other projects in the works that we all believed would someday make our lives better. We lived on the ground floor of a three-storey brick house in Hamilton; Dad worked on weekends and evenings to build two apartments above us to provide a bit of extra income. He also designed carnival rides and built them in the backyard. One was called the Ski Lift; it gave your heart a little lift each time you swooped down from the top. Several other adult rides and quite a number of kiddie rides followed.
Dad was great at figuring ways to use commonly available parts, like vehicle axles, gears, and sprockets, instead of expensive custom-made parts. Nevertheless, carnival rides were costly to construct, and any money that was realized from them was immediately plowed right back into whatever came next. Ideas for new rides came quicker than the money to finance them. I remember the dismay Bobby and I experienced after struggling valiantly to help Dad complete a ride, only to see him tighten the last nut, take pictures, then immediately set about tearing it down to cannibalize it and use the parts for his next ride, which he promised would be even better.
The whole family was involved in his enterprises. Using a steel brush, Bobby and I scrubbed the rust off of his latest ride and Mom climbed up and applied the silver undercoat, then the enamel final coat. Whatever the project, we were all in it together.
I’ll never forget one winter when Dad spent all his spare time at a table in the corner of the living room, with pen and India ink, making meticulous drawings for patent applications; a folding boat was one project, some new kind of bathtub was another. Someone bumped the table and the India ink fell on the new living room rug. I expected an ear-splitting shriek from Mom, but not a sound. Then Dad quietly said, “Milk might work.” Immediately all four of us were on our hands and knees with a big bowl full of milk, scrubbing the rug like mad. Not another word was uttered until the job was done. Then we shared a good laugh while admiring our handiwork.
When Dad was occupied with segments of projects that only he could work on, the rest of us kept busy in other ways. Mom played the piano or sewed while Bobby and I spent our time drawing, making models, or developing other skills for the fantastic futures we planned.
Dad’s projects weren’t hobbies. They were always something that, if successful, would free him from Stelco and benefit us all. It wasn’t that he didn’t like plumbing and steamfitting, but he felt a life working for others was a life wasted. Dad dreamed of being free of daily constraints so that he could devote himself totally to his inventions and projects.
I remember coming home one day and telling him I’d just met our next-door neighbour in the fabric store downtown, where she was working. She had told me that she didn’t need the money, but now that she was a widow what else was there for her to do with her time. Dad looked at me sombrely and said, “Imagine having so little creativity that you have to get a job for excitement.” We both shook our heads piously. Lack of creativity would never be our problem.
At home I learned that work can be fun and that it is great to always be working towards something. But Sundays were different. Sunday dinner, the best meal of our week, was served around noon, then the family piled into the car and away we went on a mystery tour. Dad kept the destination a secret, letting it slowly reveal itself as the journey progressed. Sometimes we visited Grimsby or Jordan to see the beautiful cherry blossoms, or to Hamilton’s Rock Garden, or maybe Niagara Falls. Sometimes we carried our aluminum boat on the roof of the car and launched it in Lake Ontario at Van Wagner’s Beach. Then we’d slowly putt along the shoreline for miles. Not having a lot of faith in our little craft, Mom, Bobby, and I nagged Dad to keep close to shore so we could swim in if anything went wrong. It never did. In winter we often went tobogganing or ice skating on the Back Bay. Whatever the adventure, at the end of the day, we always hurried home in time to huddle together in the dark, on the living room carpet, with a sandwich supper, sharing our once-a-week treat of Canada Dry ginger ale or Orange Crush, listening intently to Lamont Cranston and The Shadow on the radio.
We were a happy lot. Mealtimes were great times in my family; everyone shared hopes, dreams, and recitations of daily foibles. Conversations were cheerful, optimistic, and revolved exclusively around the present or the future. No crying over spilt milk, no gossip or negative talk. Not that we were all that virtuous; more likely we were so egocentric that the only topic of conversation that stood a chance was us. Ours was a family of laughter and high hopes, where the most precious thing of all was time. Dad was the one who set that tone.
But he didn’t mind indulging in a bit of dreaming. Many times he would smile and begin, “When our ship comes in …,” and then he’d spin some fantastic dream like “Your mother and I will have his and hers Cadillac convertibles” or “We’ll throw away the old washing machine in the basement and send all our laundry out.” Time after time he would draw us through these little imaginary journeys. We’d all listen, spellbound.
Mom always said that she would be satisfied with very little, and that it was Dad who had the grandiose plans for wealth. I believe that’s true. But it always made her smile when he started his “When our ship comes in” talk.
We all believed that Dad was a genius. Time and again he proved he could put together whatever was needed out of the most unlikely everyday materials. He could fix anything structural or mechanical, any kind of engine. He took care of things for us, and he was always ready to help a friend. He knew working parts and he knew the principles behind them — hydraulics, magnets, generators.
Dad read a lot. He was unable to pass by a newspaper without reading at least a snippet of it. I remember waking on a school day one morning and being amazed to find Dad sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper.
“Aren’t you going to work today?” I asked.
“Yes, but I was going to be ten minutes late and they dock you a half-hour, even if you’re only late five minutes. I thought I’d just read a bit and go in on time for the half-an-hour late,” he said. Some time later, when I began getting my breakfast ready, he was still there. “I was so engrossed in my reading I missed the half-hour, so I thought I’d just read a bit more and go in for the one-hour late,” he explained. Half an hour later, on my way out the door to school, he was still in the kitchen but no longer reading; now he stood, noisily gathering his things together.
“Waiting for the hour-and-a-half late?” I asked innocently.
“No!” he retorted. “I’m going to work. If I keep reading, I’ll never get to work at all.”
Dad’s interests were far-ranging. He owned the complete eight-volume set of Bernard McFadden’s Encyclopedia of Naturopathic Remedies. 'Mention an ache or pain and Dad could suggest the cure. Talk about air travel and he could launch into the history of flight and finish with whatever exciting advancements were on the drawing boards now. He kept track of anthropological and archeological discoveries and developments in technology and mechanics. He read the newspaper from cover to cover every day; he read construction, mechanics, health, and science magazines, as well as anything else he could get his hands on. More importantly, he remembered everything he read. This was the early 1940s. There was no nuclear physics, stem cell research, or any of the myriad highly technical scientific specialties that now exist. Dad knew the answers to all the questions that touched our lives. As far as Mom, Bobby, or I were concerned, he knew everything.
Dad grew up in the era of the self-made man. Men like Henry Ford started with nothing but determination and ingenuity and became fabulous success stories. Ahearn, Bell, Howe, Marconi, and others who invented things or used their creativity to think of new ways to use existing things were setting themselves apart from the crowd. In fact, at that time most of Canada’s new wealth was generated by inventors and entrepreneurs working alone. It was possible to go from having nothing to having it all, and you could do it solo. Dad saw himself in that league.
Dad’s good