I was born in a small mining town in northern Quebec. Over the years I’d often thought about going back. When the subject would come up with my dad, he’d often say, “That would be a great trip. Wish I could go.” Or, “You’ll have to give me a full report when you get back.”
Finally, motivated partly by my guilt about things left undone and partly by my dad’s declining health, my wife, Jen, and I decided to make the trip. We would ride our motorcycles. It would be a road trip in pursuit of my past.
It was perfect riding weather, and the winding roads through the rural north were smooth, scenic, and free of traffic.
After about two and a half days on the road, we rounded a familiar bend. I could see “the stacks.” Two of them, exactly as I had remembered. Beacons, guiding me home to familiar addresses: Grandma and Grandpa’s house, the local drugstore, a wooden sidewalk, a poisoned lake, the Anglican church where I was christened and, of course, the mine.
As well as being the only significant employer in the region, the mine had been the centre for social activities. My mom and dad met while working at the mine. My grandpa was an engineer there.
Jen and I went to the mine office to see about a tour. The receptionist politely excused herself and returned with a lady who worked in the personnel office. She was interested in my historical connection. She requested names and dates. She left us for about ten minutes, and when she returned she was holding three employment cards: 3 × 5 originals handwritten with fountain pens and complete with employment dates, home addresses, supervisor names, positions, rates of pay, raises, name changes from maiden to married, and employment end dates. I was astounded. This was a solid connection to the past and, for me, more valuable than the gold extracted in the smelters. I was anxious to share them with my dad.
When we got home I phoned to tell him about the trip and to let him know I’d mailed him a surprise package. A couple of days later my brother contacted me to say that Dad hadn’t been feeling well and had been taken to the hospital for tests. I decided I should tell him about the trip and the cards in person. I hopped on my bike and headed east down the highway.
In his hospital room my dad and I shared the memories of my trip and his memories of days gone by. The employment cards stirred up stories of meeting, dating, and then marrying my mom; of winters so cold if you spat on the ground the glob would bounce; of a boyhood prank where he climbed one of the stacks; and of the two huskies that used to pull him and his sled across the lake to school and back.
Although we had a good relationship, I never felt as close to my dad as I did when he painted those pictures of his life in the north. It was a connection for both of us. Father to son; man to man; friend to friend. The memories and stories continued pouring out over the next two days.
And then Dad’s test results came. His kidneys were failing fast. His bladder was infected. His lungs were operating at only ten percent. It was clear he wasn’t getting out of the hospital. The rest of the family was called as the doctor reviewed his findings with my dad. Realizing his situation, Dad made a decision not to resuscitate. And he resigned himself to the wait. The next day, with his family at his side and an Anglican priest guiding his soul, Dad let go and passed away. The employment cards were sitting on the bedside table.
Don Mills, Ontario