Daddy ©
2nd Place Seniors Literary Competition 2024, Royal Canadian Legion E
“Gloria!” he called from his artist’s den. “Let’s go now and look for the gnome homes.”
I was beside myself with delight. Walking in the woods with my dad holding my hand, his strong fingers covering mine, his long stride slowing to match my short steps, his comforting voice as he pointed out the magic around us, is my forever memory.
“Look!” he said, pointing out a hole at the bottom of a hollow tree trunk, “that’s where the gnomes live.” I’d peer into that dark abyss and see gnomes with colourful pointed hats sitting around a twig table.
“And listen to the pixies in the trees,” he said, holding his ear to the sound of the wind whistling through the leaves. To this day, I see those pixies with their delicate wings swooping from tree to tree.
“And look at those spirits flying through the meadow!” he said. I’d gasp as I watched those shy magic damsels playing hide-and-seek while flitting through the brown-eyed susans.
In my artist father’s world, a frog was not a frog. He was Mr. Frog with a shy personality who jumped from a lily pad into the pond when we came too close. Fireflies were ballerinas carrying torches; dragonflies were damselflies or darning needles (‘watch they don’t sew up your mouth!’)
This was my daddy. An artist’s mind that created woodland adventures for me, his eldest daughter. Me, whom he never saw until his return from service overseas. When he left, my mother was pregnant with me.
Mom confessed years later she would show me his photograph as soon as I began to talk. “Daddy,” she said to me, pointing to his photo over and over, “Daddy.”
“Daddy,” I repeated.
And when he returned from the war, and my mother took me in her arms to welcome him home, she said my first word to him was ‘daddy’. She said he cried.
He wore dark brown or forest green corduroy jackets that reminded me of our walks in the woods. The fabric warmed his touch and skin, emitting an aura of sweet tobacco from his pipe: the perfect place to snuggle when the world let you down. He painted murals on our bathroom walls, creating a fantasy underwater world for my siblings and me which we incorporated into our play during weekly baths. His talent caught the eyes of prominent civic citizens, which led to numerous local newspaper articles and a scholarship. He painted day and night because it was his life’s blood. And in the evening, we, his children, tucked into bed, felt comforted when we heard mom read novels to him as he put paint to canvas. He encouraged us in all ways creative, from drama and music to art and writing. Today some of his grandchildren and great grandchildren exhibit -- and excel in -- those talents.
This man is such a vivid part of me that once, when I was experiencing those terrible life moments we all do, he came to me in a dream. He told me everything would be all right. I remember awakening with a sense of peace.
War was something I could not fathom. And yet, this wonderful man who created stunning works of art for the National Museum of Canada in Ottawa where he focused on North American Indigenous and Inuit art for over 20 years, suffered from mental demons created by serving our country as a soldier.
He, who lied about his age to enlist because he was younger than the official acceptance age, returned home from World War II a changed man. He died in his mid-sixties, from a heart attack brought on by the myriads of drugs he was prescribed by well-meaning professionals who tried, but could not help him recover his heart and soul.
As the son of a World War I hero, a year-long resident in England with his mother’s family, and an idealist with strong convictions, he held a slightly romantic view of war. His brother, relatives and friends had already enlisted. It was the exciting, heady mood of the day to ‘sign up’. He wanted to join because he felt it in his blood. And it was The Royal Canadian Air Force that attracted him because he wanted to learn to fly.
There was a systemic problem, though. His artistic temperament fed a sensitive vein that ran through him. If he saw colours in technicolour, then he saw battle atrocities in vivid replays. Over and over.
Soldiers aren’t supposed to be sensitive. They are taught to be tough robots.
After his return to civilian life, his subdued temper flared more easily. Tortured by the realities of war, his subsequent art reflected a declining mental state. Dark canvases featured war lords, demons, and hell. Years later, his condition would be recognized and labelled as post traumatic stress disorder, PTSD, but at the time, he was diagnosed manic depressive.
In later years, during the wars of Afghanistan and Iraq, PTSD became a common casualty of serving in the field, and is now recognized for the mental disorder it is.
I cry for my father, who taught me the magic and joy in life, but who could not enjoy the magic anymore. And I cry for those countless others who suffer the same agony.
Today, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is immediately identifiable and considered one of the worst side effects of war combat. I grieve for my father and all soldiers who suffered, and continue to suffer, this terrible trauma.
Thank you, daddy, and all those countless other brave souls, for your unselfish legacy.
Let’s go now and look for the gnome homes.