June 21, 2015
I have a little time to say some things that are important to say about my dad, now 81.
Oak stairs designed by dad, built by Lou Currah. The ones I climbed to get to my room were spiral – climbing them was wild like a circus act. This is what replaced them after I left
There are some people who are reliable in their ‘rightness’, who – if asked a genuinely perplexing question about human complexity and what to do next – will listen, consider and then dig deeply for an answer. Without fail, that answer rises out of compassion, intuition and a razor sharp insight into what, to most others, cannot be seen. My dad had that. It’s close to mystical for me – what he knows, almost without knowing.
Fireplace – designed by dad, and build by an artist-stonemason circa 1973. Back room (to balance the cool dark cave of the schoolhouse), designed by dad, and built by him, my mom and all their friends.
We painted together, when I was a tweener. It was mom’s idea I think – but a good one. It means we were terrified together, met our internal demons together, screwed up lots, burned bad pictures regularly, found humility together. With me, 31 years his junior, he was always the teacher, always suggesting, offering, nudging. But I knew that we were also partners on the torture road to find-your-place with paint. I was glad he was with me then and I still am, now.
from the dark into the light. Designed by Dad. There’s a rightness to this.
While dad and mom were teaching full time, raising my sister and I (which involved the normal feeding, cajoling, suggesting and exploding that parents do, but also gymnastics, piano, cello, spinning and weaving lessons; 2 orchestra rehearsals a week, piano trio rehearsals and concerts; a farm with 24 head of cattle, six goats, twelve chickens, and a half-acre garden), my parents came to every single concert I played.
Dad, in the back, front or corner of every venue, cried joy at me with a wet face beaming. I didn’t need to look – without seeing him, I felt him there.
Briar Hill was built in 1867 by colonial scots stonemasons, the year Canada became a country. My parents bought it in 1968 as a decommissioned rural school, complete with desks, a centralized woodstove, a wall of slate blackboards, institution green paint, and big white globe ceiling-hung lights.
Dad was my teacher in grade 12 french – not a good idea, since I wasn’t academic, and that’s the way he taught. It was okay though. He was also careful to carefully mention that my hair looked nice that way every once in a while, when he sensed I might be down.
I remember waking up here as a child in the early 70’s. The green ceiling was coming down to make room for 18 feet of elevation. In the mornings I would go into the bathroom and half my face would be covered with plaster dust from overnight sleep. I loved it.
In 2004 dad and I went to Scotland together. I was shocked to feel myself crying, face wet, as the Glasgow train climbed north into the rising highlands. We stayed in Oban, and later Campbeltown, where McArthurs are from. We walked the entire circumference of Kerrera, dad getting faster and faster as the hours of walking went by. I ran beside him, as I had when I was a child, trying, but not quite able to match his strong stride.
In his life here, dad has planted thousands of trees. The cornfields I once ran through – powered by joy with my sister- are now pine forests – habitat for deer, birds … for flora and fauna that Used to live there, until the trees were taken. Dad is forest-maker.
Happy fathers’ day, James Robert. I’m fu’ the ‘nu with love for ye.