A Life Well Lived

Several years ago, for a course I was taking, I had the good fortune of being assigned to write a senior’s recollections of their life. My dad, John Harden, was 81 at the time and I chose him as my subject. For Dad, it was an opportunity to reminisce about his younger years and reflect on how positive and negative life events affected his thoughts and outlook on life.

We settled at the kitchen table, with cups of tea and Dad’s stash of chocolate chip cookies between us. Thoughtfully, Dad recounted his life story in great detail. He began with his earliest memory at age three, as he recalled a trip with his father to visit his newborn sister at the Mount Hamilton Hospital. He remembered the excitement of travelling up the Mount Hamilton Incline Railway in a Model T Touring Sedan, with curtains covering the windows.

Dad spoke of his childhood, the war years and marriage to the love of his life, the productive working years, retirement years, Mom’s death and his many years beyond that. But more than any other event, it was his experiences during the Great Depression and his service in the army during World War II that coloured the way Dad lived his life.

Growing up in a Christian household, my father’s family attended church every Sunday—morning, afternoon and evening. Dances and the cinema were forbidden. By age 12, Dad rebelled against his parents’ religious restrictions, some of which “just didn’t make sense.” By adolescence, he made decisions based on his own understanding of his faith, chose to attend church with friends, and decided what was not reasonable within the religion. Eventually, his parents relented, and Dad recalled seeing Danny Boy and a few other movies that his parents approved of.

The difficulties of the Great Depression left their mark on Dad. He recalled the front door slamming and his parents fighting when his father quit his job as foreman at the Hamilton Dairy, after working there for 10 years. Although I don’t know what the dispute was about, I can only imagine how distressing this would have been for my grandmother in those difficult times. The next day, a man came to the house and told my grandfather to swallow his pride and take his job back. He was stubborn, and refused to go back to the dairy. Dad was 12 years old at the time, and said that it took him years to forgive his father for the hardship he caused the family.

It was three years before my grandfather worked again. A private lender held the mortgage on their house. Out of work and not able to pay the loan, my grandfather fully expected the family would have to walk away from their home. The story goes, much to my grandfather’s surprise, the lender responded with, “What am I going to do with your house? Stay in it, and when you get work, you can start paying again.”

Between my grandmother taking in sewing jobs and government relief, they managed to get by. Dad remembered feeling fortunate that they weren’t out on the street, and thankful that the family still managed to eat well.

Years later, as an adult, Dad began to understand his father’s temperament—a man who was sent as a child to live at a Barnardo Home (homes for orphans and vulnerable children) in England, and later shipped off to Canada as part of a program to settle boys on farms. Himself a war veteran, in WWI he was wounded by three gunshots to his face, head and shoulder. Consequently, he suffered from shell shock, the common term used in those days for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Yet even through those difficult years, Dad could always find the positive. He recalled spending memorable occasions with his father, and camping at his uncle’s farm. He realized that had his father not been out of work, the considerable time they spent together would not have been possible. In those years, the city dump was a playground for children. Dad and his friends would use their imaginations and forage for treasures they would later use to make things. The boys peeked into the holes the homeless lived in, and befriended a man they called “Eddie the Tramp.”

By age 19, Dad joined the army, and spent close to four years overseas as a morse code operator during the war. Growing up, I heard stories about camping at Stonehenge, sleeping in the cold and damp trenches, and of blankets that crawled with fleas. Dad’s stories often centred on the people he met and the friends he made. Yet it wasn’t until the afternoon of our chat over tea and cookies that Dad confided about the horrific images that were forever imprinted on his mind. Images of truckload after truckload of dead men, piled up high with their feet dangling out the back of the trucks.

As a contribution to a booklet I produced on stories of faith, my father wrote:
“As a 20-year-old in 1943, I was a member of the First Canadian Infantry Division sailing from Birkenhead, England for an amphibious landing in Sicily. There were 28 vessels in the convoy consisting of Liberty ships (freighters) and LSTs, escorted by four destroyers.

“On July 4, 1943 in the Mediterranean Sea just off Algiers, disaster struck. The ship on our starboard was hit amid ships by a torpedo and sank in 10 minutes. Our first thought was of whom we might know aboard her. We spent a troubled night. The following day, the submarine torpedoed two more Liberty ships. They managed to limp into Algiers in North Africa. Many other close encounters occurred over the next three years, but I was fortunate and survived. In all these situations, I prayed to my God to watch over me. He did then and He has always since.”

Settling down with their young family in the town of Oakville, Ont., my parents joined Hopedale Presbyterian in the late-1950s, with its young, vibrant and growing congregation. Dedicated to church life, my father served on several boards over the years, and he was always willing to pitch in and get his hands dirty when it came to the spring cleanup of the grounds. He held various roles within the church, including Sunday school superintendent, treasurer, elder for over 50 years and clerk of session for 14 years.

Never once did I question my father’s faith in God. For me, it wasn’t only his daily prayers and Bible reading that demonstrated his faith, it was the way he conducted his life. I recall reading a letter that had been tucked away in a file among my father’s important papers. The handwritten note was from a businessman who had recently retired, yet had been a colleague of Dad’s many years prior. The letter stated that he had learned much from my father during those years in business, and he thanked Dad for showing him how to treat others. It was a testament to my father’s character and in the quiet way Dad lived his faith.

I asked my father what advice he would give, based on his life experiences. Dad was not usually forthcoming with advice, but since he was the subject of my paper, he thought for a long moment while I sat across from him at the kitchen table. This is what he shared: “Get along with others. Work hard and set goals. Do the best you can do wherever you work. Take opportunities that come your way. Share your knowledge in business. Live within your means. Be generous in giving your time to others. Lastly, treat others the way you would like to be treated.”

Through my father’s account of his life, he taught me the value of taking time in our busy lives to engage with others and listen. Really listen. We can learn a lot from the stories of others. Sometimes all we have to do is ask questions.

As I wrapped up my assignment, it occurred to me that I had received much more than pages upon pages of research. A first-hand history lesson, yes. But more than that, I learned about the man I call Dad, who summed up his years on earth as “a satisfying and good life.” He attributed this to a wonderful 47 years of marriage, a good family life, many lifelong friends, work he enjoyed, no financial concerns, and God’s protective hand through it all. I call it a life well lived.