The House With the Broken Two by Myrl Coulter

Author:Myrl Coulter [COULTER, MYRL]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-927380-16-1
Publisher: Anvil Press
Published: 2011-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TEN

Three Funerals

MY FATHER WAS one of the most sociable people I have ever known. He didn’t like solitude. He liked to be with people, the more the better. He was happiest in the middle of a crowded party, in the stadium cheering for his Winnipeg Blue Bomber football team, on a curling rink surrounded by teammates, in a cold, damp duck blind with his hunting buddies and his son, in the backyard barbecuing for family and friends, in the kitchen with his five children clamouring to get at the brand new black Labrador puppy tucked inside his coat.

The only people I ever saw him uncomfortable with were my two grandfathers. My father always addressed my big burly maternal grandfather as “Sir” and was unusually quiet whenever he came to visit. Similarly, my father always deferred politely to his own father, always tending dutifully to his needs and comforts. By contrast, Dad was always a little playful with his mother, often gently teasing her. They had an impish bond, as if they were playful conspirators plotting to challenge the tide of wisdom that flowed without fail from my worldly grandfather.

Although he was born in Calgary, my father grew up in Winnipeg. Named after the beloved older brother my grandfather had lost in the aftermath of the Great War, my father was the only son, his parent’s adored boy, his sister’s cherished brother. She was the older, more sensible one; he was the antic-prone wild child.

A natural athlete as a boy, my father participated in few sports during his adult life. He was a very good curler. In the fifties, he was part of a team that made it to the Canadian Brier. For many years, he wore his pin-covered bonspiel sweater proudly. Until one of my sisters recently reminded me, I had forgotten that in his later years, Dad also enjoyed golf. She remembers cringing as she watched him leave the house for the golf course wearing one of his garishly patterned shirts and a pair of loud plaid pants. Now she thinks of those outfits as his happy clothes.

Although blessed with a clever mind, my father chose not to pursue further education after high school. His affability made him a natural salesman. He spent most of his working years selling various commodities such as building products or heavy-duty farm equipment. He enjoyed meeting people, but his work had consequences. The constant travel, the unstable levels of income, the socializing that salesmanship demands—that he so easily gave himself up to—all contributed to stress at home. As children, we sensed the onset of uneasy times, held our breath in the dark periods, and basked during some glorious happy days. As a parent, my father was often absent when he should have been home—and was often absent even when he was at home. Nevertheless, somehow we kids always knew that our father loved us. And we loved him back.

I was always relieved when my father finally arrived home in the evenings, even if I knew my mother was angry with him.

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