On the Bruce Trail, Ontario - Canada

On the Bruce Trail, Ontario – Canada

Am so thankful for the weekend in Toronto, away from the hustle and bustle of my work week in pacy Washington DC. As I walked the 21km of the length of the Bruce Trail this morning, I reflected on my life and contemplated the future but mostly gave thanks and praise. My heart brims with gratitude for the privilege of having been given a front-row seat to witness first hand the life of a titan of our times. He lived a long life. Next June, He’d have turned 90. And that is in keeping with his ancestors. They lived long lives.  And so I gave thanks for a man who, through example, taught me to be a man. I was most fortunate to call him Taata. Dad. He taught me that real men are men under authority and never draw attention to themselves but always remember that who they are and what they could possibly ever have or attain is by providence. And that humility is the distinction of a full man. When he became a senior citizen, the town authorities asked to name a road after him. He respectfully turned down their request. He taught me the sanctity of work. For as long as the sun was up, me and my brother were up mending fences, typing contracts (I can still hear that Olympia typewriter) and running around like intoxicated minions. He paced and timed our tasks. He did not suffer fools gladly and couldn’t stand slackness. Whenever someone in the family quipped that they were “on his majesty’s service,” you let me them go. And that extended to cousins and other family members. He was the patriarch of the clan. As we grew older, that phrase changed to “His imperial majesty’s service.” And whether it was the bad example that it was in his day (or perhaps even at that point he had a better understanding of who I was), he told me never to work for the government. Call it what you may, am glad I never did. He was a man’s man. Whenever I have to call in the plumber or maintenance man, I smile. I can still see his muscled hands working those wenches to fix leaking water faucets as we looked on in wonder. Those same hands would go fix breakfast for us. He taught me to dream possibilities. Against insurmontable odds, his was a story of great achievement that surpassed what life handed him at birth. While he exemplified the truth that a man’s life does not constitute in the things he possesses, he always told me it took grit, dogged determination and consistent focus to succeed in life. And oh, how he’d rub that in. On occasion (in my pre-teen years), he would let me warm his Mercedes – that seemed the standard then; car technology has since  evolved. Looking back, it’s obvious he never let opportunities for life lessons pass by: he would conveniently come by the car window and tell me how all this stuff was not mine. It was his. I had to work for mine. Ouch. I hated that! So much so that I silently vowed to make my point one fine day in the future. And that day did come. I drove a gleaming four-wheel drive Mercedes into his driveway. He did not say a word. He taught me to be accountable. It didn’t matter that am pushing 40, when I showed up at his house, I literally lost all my rights – except the right to worship, be heard and be afforded the basic necessities of life, food included. I had to show up at the breakfast table all dressed and ready for the day at 7am. And I would have to be back at the house at 7pm, at the latest. No contest to that. The rules of engagement were clear, from day 1. No grey areas there. And for every coin that he gave me (with the exception of my pocket money), he asked for accountability. He taught me that Order was a rule and not an exception, and that I needed to keep an ongoing To-Do list. Before the lights went out, we reviewed the day’s work and laid out the tasks for the following day. Looking back, the efficiency in that home could easily have rivaled the workings of a Fortune 500 company. My brother and I quickly learnt that a clandestine covert maneuver to his study was all we needed to decide if we needed to call in sick the next day. All the toil and hassle that awaited us the next day was neatly detailed on his next day To-Do List. He taught me the value of money. The other day my daughter went out to eat with my friend. As my friend went about settling the bill, my daughter was quick to remind her that she had to dispense her old notes before the new ones! Beyond that little tip being passed on to the third generation, he never disbursed funds without a clearly thought-through budget. And frugality was a virtue he acclaimed greatly. He taught me about delayed gratification. At one low point, I led a house-wide hunger strike to protest what I then perceived were great injustices. I even wrote to the parish priest listing all these grievances. Both men went quiet on me. Then on the 4th day, he invited me to the table and roundly told me it would not be long before I would have the say-so on all I was taking issue with. And with hindsight now, he was right. He taught me the art of public speaking. As soon as I could read and was tall enough to reach the lectern, he “volunteered” my name to take the reading during mass at our parish church. He taught me to esteem everyone I encountered, regardless of their estate in life. He gave the time of day to the milk man and snotty neighborhood kid like he did for his business associates. He taught me that real men show care and affection for their offspring and loved ones. When my mother passed on (on my second birthday), he put off marriage for a later date so he could raise me and my equally young brother without distraction. He never remarried. Even with domestic servants at his beck and call, he made the time to bathe us. Get us dressed. Take us to school. Put us to bed. He taught me to Serve, Give and Forgive. And take the time to laugh. At every opportunity, he served and gave. From Family to Church, to Community. I witnessed great injustices against his person. And yet I also witnessed him freely and generously extend an olive branch to his tormentors. And at every turn, he did not pass up the chance to lighten up. He taught me that life affords second chances; the first glimpses of grace I would witness were with him. In my cocky teen years, I knocked down and injured an old man and was promptly arrested. He was woken up from his afternoon nap to be told what had happened. He quietly paid the fine, gave the man a hefty sum for his medical expenses and went back to sleep. I never heard a word from him concerning this matter. And when, on my sixteenth birthday, I escaped from home, he never did say a thing when I returned a fortnight later. Life carried on like I had never left home. He taught me to pray. At the end of the day, whether I was feeling like it or not, as soon as the hour hand turned to 7pm, I knew where I was supposed to be: in the living room, kneeling down with him in supplication. He taught me to celebrate life but also to embrace and prepare for death. All through my growing years, I always knew if anything happened to him, I never had to concern myself with how I would meet the bare necessities of life and get through school. All that was already taken care of. Ditto for my siblings and everyone else in his care. And the last time I saw him, I asked for some time alone with him. In my family, that means I have something serious to say and it will be me doing the talking. And he did give me the time. I told him I had the unction that was the last time I was seeing him. This side of heaven. And having been the great dad he was, I looked forward to meeting him on the other side. He quietly listened. And then dismissed me. In typical style. He was always in charge.