My Father's Violin

This is my dad's violin.  Its story weaves all of the way through The Camino Letters, a fact that still astounds me when I read the letters together as a piece.  I didn't set out to write the full story of my dad's violin, and the story of his teacher Ford Rupert. It just happened that way.

I received a letter with a book in the mail today.

The book that was sent to me today is called Run of the Town:  Stories of an Unfettered Youth by Terry West. Terry is the man I contacted when I first decided to submit a story in May 2009 for a book about the Hearst Public School called Clayton's Kids.  Terry wrote to me today to congratulate me about The Camino Letters, which he had heard about from Ernie, another man involved in the Clayton Kids project. Because of Ernie, a woman came to the Winnipeg reading at McNally Robinson last weekend to tell me that I look just like my mother.

I heard about Terry and Ernie's project in 2009 through a client, in a roundabout way.  I didn't know Terry, but it turns out that he knew my father quite well.  And he had a picture of Ford Rupert with the class holding their violins - something that had previously only existed in my dad's memory.  A long-lost, long-ago picture of my father's favourite story.

When the picture arrived, I raced to Centennial Place to catch my dad at the end of dinner.  My dad was always the last one sitting, preferring to sit and chat into the evening. When finished, he would then deliver his licked-clean dishes to the counter. He always refused to let the staff ("the girls" he called them) do this.  He said that they did enough for him already, they didn't need to collect his dishes too.

When I got to the dining room that day, my dad was sitting at the table finishing his coffee - true to form.  I sat down beside him and without saying anything I put the big picture in front of him on the table.

I watched his face.  It didn't take long for him to realize what he was looking at and then he started at the top row left with his index finger:

back:  Lempi Hietala , Marvin Smith, Katy Terefenko, Grace Fulton, Vivian Clarin, Olavi (Oliver) Halme, Brian Grieve, Arnie Woods

middle:  Jane MacEachern, Lois Sprickerhoff, Ruth Lapenskie, Ruth Jones, Jackie West, Leila Joutsi, Stanley Butryn, Nick Olasevich 

front:  Glenna Jones, Anita Reid, Rose Palmquist, Sheila Wilson, Martin Stolz (on drums),  Mervyn Larstone, Willis Rouse, Neda Chalykoff (on piano), Mr. Ford Rupert  

He named them all, left to right, row by row.  I know, because I had the names with me on another sheet of paper.  I wanted to see if this is what he would do, and it was.

The photo went up on the wall of his room and stayed there.  He was never able to name them all again, in order, in that way. Their names recessed into the places of things forgotten in his unpredictable mind.  But in that first moment, time stood still and he was the rugrat in the bottom row right, beside the piano and playing music with his friends.  That was his last autumn in school, before he had to quit to go and run logging trucks in the bush for his father.

In his letter to me today,Terry said this:

In one story (Peasoup and Blokes) there's a quick line describing a pulp truck coming down the street, chains flapping.  In my mind's eye as I wrote the scene I pictured Willis' truck.  I remember especially a strike he was involved in around 1948-1950.  It was winter.  The truckers paraded through the streets, chains wrapped around the wheels.  I associate your dad with this because of all the haulers he was the only one I knew personally.

Sometimes the quick lines are the ones that stick.

Thank you Terry.  Thank you Ernie.

25 Years Later

I was in Winnipeg this past weekend, hanging out with some very good friends from a long time ago.  This is a picture of my teenage tribe, except for Garth and Shaun who didn't come until the next day.  I'll bet if I dig through my bins of stuff I will find a picture with exactly the same people, in virtually the same position, taken about twenty-five years ago. We all look great in this picture - look at us smile!

I was in Winnipeg for two reasons:  this reunion of the youth-group gang, and a reading from The Camino Letters at the McNally Robinson bookstore.  The man who organized the youth retreats when we were all young was Ted Dodd, and Ted happens to be my taskmaster for Chapter 4 of the letters.  At McNally Robinson Ted read his task to me and I read my letter to him.

I found this difficult to do without crying - especially there, especially having not seen Ted for years before that day, and especially with this gang of old friends watching me.   It's strange (but not really) how deeply I still love all of them.  I haven't really kept in touch.  I left a long time ago, and left some love behind.

At church on Sunday morning, at the reunion worship service, Ted talked about The Diviners and the river that flows both ways.  Life is like that.  He also talked about the need to propel the things that we knew back then into this broken world, and he is right.  I was glad to be reminded.

And then I went to McNally Robinson to read, too nervous to eat lunch, not sure of what shade of lipstick to put on ....

This is Linda

The first stranger who arrived for the reading was a woman named Linda, who came to introduce herself and to tell me that I looked exactly like my mother.  She heard about the reading through Ernie Bies, the man who helped to edit a book about Hearst, Ontario where my family is from.

Linda lives in Winnipeg, and was a schoolmate of my sisters in Hearst, long before I was born. She didn't know that I was about to read Chapter 4 when she told me that I look like my mother.

Linda didn't really know anything about the book at all.  But with those few words she gave me all that I needed for that day in Winnipeg, a place that one of our kids calls "the heart of the heart of the continent."  So true.

My hair etc.

This is Vanessa

This is Vanessa.  She is my hairdresser and has cut my hair for many many years now.  Seeing Vanessa every eight weeks or so is one of the happy indulgences of my life.


It is an interesting relationship that can develop across the mirror, in the hair salon.  Particularly if one always goes to the same place, to the same person, in front of the same mirror.  I have watched my wrinkles grow in Vanessa's mirror.  We now debate whether or not to mask the grey with something.  We watch time pass.
Vanessa is young, and gorgeous, with a young person's growing life in a big city.  It's fun for me to hear about. We talk about all sorts of things in front of her mirror. For me, I always have my glasses off and so I can't see her very well.  I can only listen.  I talk freely to Vanessa, and she to me, because this has become what we do. 


There is nothing to hide here because, after all, the mirror is right there - large as life - and it's a self-contained world in the place where we talk.  The conversation ends, the robe comes off, the hair is tossed, and off I go.

Vanessa was the third person (apart from the 26 taskmasters) who knew about these letters of mine.  I desperately needed a haircut after walking the Camino and I therefore saw Vanessa almost immediately after landing back in Canada.  I was still completely raw and, as one sometimes does, I spilled my guts to my hairdresser about what had just happened to me. 

Over another haircut later on we talked about her grandmother's illness, and my father's death.  Over time I have come to know what an enormous heart Vanessa has.  And she has come to know a bit of me.  

As I rode the train into Toronto this morning, I was so nervous about my interview with the CBC, and so excited about delivering the book to Vanessa.  I'm not sure which emotion was stronger.  It has been a very fun day.

So, on the hair front, here is the scoop:  I have been growing my hair out for a year now,  slowly getting rid of the short, sharp lines.  Today we decided that it was enough for a while - it's long enough, soft enough, and ready for the book launch on Saturday.  

I love my new haircut and Vanessa always makes me feel beautiful -  because just look at her!  Who wouldn't feel beautiful sitting in her chair?