Family is the most important thing in the world.
— Princess Diana, 1961–97
I’ve fallen head over heels in love with many women. Miriam Torgerson and I met in a hotel bedroom in Halifax. That’s not as scandalous as it sounds when I tell you the room was doing double duty as an interview venue, the hotel having muffed my boardroom reservation. An elementary school teacher and reading specialist, Miriam was among the dozens of out-of-province professionals I recruited each year, in my capacity as education superintendent, to mitigate the severe shortage of teachers in my rural school district. Miriam and I tied the knot in Quesnel, her BC hometown, and parted company civilly after seventeen years as husband and wife, most of them happy. With no desire to make lawyers richer and ourselves poorer, we sorted out a separation agreement over coffee and lunches at a neighbourhood Burger King. The day we separated and the weeks and months that followed were the most miserable days of my life.
Lady Diana’s diagnosis, “There were three of us in this marriage, so it was a bit crowded,” certainly did not apply to our situation. The marital breakdown, more my fault than Miriam’s, was the result of irreconcilable differences. Divorce, frowned on by Salvation Army teachings, was a tough pill for me. My reticence and the possibility of a reconciliation, though slim, delayed the actual divorce for several years.
Miriam was, is, a wonderful human being and a caring mother of our two sons. I have been blessed with a continuing strong bond with Paul and Mark largely because she distinguished between our fractured relationship and our parental roles. Until the boys were of age, I continued to participate in family celebrations—birthdays, graduations, Christmas Day festivities including early-morning gift opening and dinner. I admire her resilience, and I’m proud of the life she has built for herself and grateful for the years we spent together.
Among the most wrenching aspects of marital separation are the ramifications for the children of the marriage and the implications for an ongoing relationship with them. If you are, as I was, the parent who’s physically leaving the home, these issues can be quite traumatic, as they certainly were for me. You ask yourself: Does my departure from the household mean that my relationship with my kids will deteriorate? How often will I get to spend time with them? Here again, it was Miriam’s attitude that came to my rescue. Not once did she try to limit my access to the boys or play them off to score a point at my expense.
Different strokes
Our older son, Paul, was born at the Grace Hospital in St. John’s. I have many cherished memories of his early years. As a toddler, strapped into his bike seat behind mine, he loved to ride from our Patrick Street home to the St. John’s waterfront, where we checked out the harbour activity and admired the latest port arrivals. It was there that Paul got his first glimpse into the larger world as we noted the diverse ports of registry emblazoned on the ships’ bows.
St. John’s, 1976. With my first child, Paul, three days old. (Author photo)
Our early, Saturday morning biking jaunts, intended to give his mamma a little extra shut-eye, inevitably included a lingering visit to the model train supplies store just off New Gower Street. There was always a need for yet another piece of rolling stock or a trestle to add to the miniature railway back at the house.
Paul’s pride and joy was the oversized sandbox which I built in the backyard. The perimeter of the box was topped with a street, complete with lane markings. An elevated launch area and a ramp to the street below gave him the option of racing his dinky cars, a fascination that he often indulged. Paul lived in Newfoundland (St. John’s and Kona Beach) for three extended periods, most recently as a graduate student in oceanography at Memorial University. All of which copper-fastened his status as an incurable Newf.
Mark, the younger of the two boys, spent just four of his childhood years in Newfoundland, so, understandably, he has less emotional attachment to the Rock, certainly fewer memories of the place. Hatched in Ottawa, urban living has been his lot and, in time, his choice, whether Ottawa, Berlin, Toronto, his present domicile, or Karlskrona, a city in southern Sweden, where he obtained his master’s degree in industrial design.
Deer Lake, NL, 1984. Paul, left, and Mark with my dad and me. (Author photo)
The boys are close-knit, yet very different passions and pastimes propel each. Paul is most at home standing knee deep in his favourite salmon stream, hoping to reconnect with that big one that got away last time, or shaping a piece of Douglas fir in his fully-equipped, tightly organized workshop. Especially, he has a keen interest in antique carpentry tools, researching their origins and restoring them. His enthusiasm for the outdoor life and his skill at woodworking authenticate his Simmons credentials.
Though not a workaholic, Mark interacts with a laptop during most of his waking day, since his job is all about manipulating digital data. As well, he has an online business, marketing items he conceived and designed. His interests include art, woodworking, and cycling. He loves to travel, dine out, and otherwise spend time with friends.
Mark gets pigeonholed as the city slicker in the family. He does thrive in the heart of the city but has no time for suburbia. He loves being at an ocean beach. Hiking in the mountains and exploring the deep woods also get his juices flowing.
If looks could kill . . .
Awaiting the arrival of two come-from-away guests, renowned Newfoundland artist David Blackwood kept an eye on his latest creation, Cape Spear, Newfoundland, 1983, a painting of the old lighthouse in which we were standing. Canada’s minister for national parks, John Roberts, was there. Indeed, dignitaries from all over had sandwiched into the cramped space. The guests of honour were expected at any minute. Blackwood’s exquisite piece of art would be the memento of their visit.
Roaches Line, NL, 1988. Mark, left, and Paul with Joey Smallwood at his home. (Author photo)
Miriam, Paul, and I were keeping an eye on Mark. The three-year-old’s fidget level was up on max, and the tripod supporting the masterpiece was precariously close. You guessed it! Mark toppled the tripod. Instinctively, I switched to multi-tasking mode, using my left hand to grab Mark by the shirt collar, and with my right palm I cupped the corner of the framed painting a nanosecond before it could impact the stone floor.
Tripod and painting were repositioned. Mere moments later, our guests made their entrance. Minister Roberts presented the painting. Graciously accepting it were the intended recipients, Prince Charles and Princess Diana! The date was June 24, 1983.
Mark had missed his shot at infamy, but just barely!
The aforementioned model railway survived the family’s move to Ottawa, underwent several upgrades, and engaged both boys frequently. As well, at Mark’s request, I built a treehouse in the back garden, and he spent many happy hours there with his friends.
As a family, we travelled a fair bit. Mark was heavy into Legos, so, as part of their first trip to western Europe, Miriam and I took our boys to the Legoland resort in Billund, Denmark, which draws 2,000,000 visitors annually. London was also on our itinerary. There, the highlight for the guys was the famous London Trocadero, an entertainment complex on Coventry Street until its closure in 2014. For Paul and Mark, the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace was no match for the gigantic video arcade at the Troc.
Cavendish, PEI, 1983. L-R: Paul, Doug (my nephew), my younger son, Mark, and Greg (my nephew). Author photo.
And, here he is, Willis the charmer!
Paul’s better half, Tiffany, is a beautiful daughter of the Ottawa valley. Her spare-time passions are biking and sewing, at which she is quite accomplished. Her day job and Paul’s are with the same BC government agency in Kamloops. Tiffany extended the family line in 2016 by giving birth to their son, Willis, my father’s namesake.
Willis (Tiffany Simmons photo)
So, yeah! I’m a doting grandpa! Willis was twenty-six months old when I last got to hold and play peekaboo with him. He’s nearly three now, and via Skype, I look on as he exhibits growing comprehension, perfects his mischief-making skills, and flashes his knock-’em-dead smile. Willis began verbalizing a long while ago, though what he’s saying sometimes makes no sense, indisputable proof that he has my genes!