My father loved his country roads and I succeeded in finding new and interesting ones to explore with him on a regular basis. Early rides together lasted but a short while, long enough to sip and finish a small take-out coffee. Later rides lasted a full afternoon, and we found ourselves buying large coffees before we headed out and refills at the turn-around point. Dad, in his early eighties, eventually had to ask for more than one pit-stop. I recall also that he occasionally paid for the coffees.
As I recently discovered, some time after our country drives became a habit, father put pen to paper and wrote a story - intended for his faithful audience, readers of the Norwich Gazette - from his unique point-of-view about some of our experiences together.
[“Stories bound for Dad’s small town paper”]
He starts the story with a joke, in my opinion: “Every Sunday I get taken for a ride, sorry, my son guides me around the London area in his car.”
He mentions several items of interest and - perhaps for the first time ever - he and I appear in the same sentence doing something we both greatly enjoy: “This time of year we watch for the white flowering elderberries. My son Gordon maps them and we know exactly where to go when they ripen. The maps are available, at a price of course.” (He is right about the map. It’s quite expensive).
[“... son Gordon maps them and we know exactly where to go...”]
He writes a great deal about a short tour we took through a Quaker church that stands one kilometer north of Sparta, Ontario and finishes off with one more word about our beloved elderberries. (Mother made the best elderberry pies in Oxford County. He and I could both agree on that).
[“More specific information will cost you!”]
Thanks to finding and reading his story I can safely conclude that, to the end, he had a sharp eye and mind and liked to tell his stories. However, that being said, never did we speak about Gracie Purvis, and I regret my missed opportunity to this day. I’m sure, based on other conversations I had with my father about very delicate matters, we could have addressed the matter in a carful manner, without me passing any negative judgment on events that occurred nearly 60 years earlier.
Missed opportunity.
Here I am today - almost ten years after father’s death - very interested in knowing more about a woman who was father’s dear friend for three months while he was in England (as a young sailor and brave combatant), a woman he could likely recall quite easily, even vividly, if he was here with me. But he is not. He is gone. So are some of his best stories. Such is life, my father would say to me.
[“Frank and Doug try to get the pick of girls”]
No doubt there are people who will tell me that some stories are better left untold, perhaps even forgotten. The past is the past. Shouldn’t be disturbed. The notion that men in uniform formed alliances with other women, forgetting for a time or turning their backs on commitments to girlfriends back at home, is a disagreeable matter about disapproved arrangements.
My own mother, if she was here, would likely be the most concerned person of all. She might be pointing a finger straight at my nose right now.
But even if she is or would if she was here, I feel there are some stories - difficult, challenging, upsetting stories for some people - that have to be told. Need to be told. At least explored, like winding, dusty, country roads.
And that’s what I intend to do.
* * * * *
More to follow.
***
Please click here to read (PG. 3) WHERE ARE YOU, GRACIE PURVIS? Chapter 1
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