Category: General

It’s interesting how the dichotomy exists between words and actions. Oddly enough, this was one of the easiest things I”ve ever had to write. It was, however, one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to deliver.

Eulogy

Most eulogies seem to commonly follow the pattern of a listing of one’s life history and accomplishments. I’m not going to follow that pattern. I’m going to instead concentrate on a single conversation we had.

On May 4^th, 2010, the 100^th anniversary of the founding of the Royal Canadian Navy, I phoned Dad early in the morning. I started the conversation with a resounding, Happy Anniversary, followed by a singing of the chorus of Heart of Oak. He joined in on the second line.

For those not familiar, Heart of Oak is the official march of the Royal Canadian Navy. The RCN was the first “real job” outside the farm that Dad ever had, and one that was part of heart for his entire life. The chorus goes like this:

Heart of oak are our ships, jolly tars are our men.
We always are ready.
Steady, boys, steady!
We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.

This is about as far as we got before laughing got the better of us and we didn’t really do it much justice at all. OK, we weren’t laughing. We were giggling. It was a little, tactfully put, informal. Given the solemnity of the date, and our lack of solemnity on the occasion, it may actually have qualified as naval blasphemy.

Heart of Oak was written in 1760 to commemorate several British victories in the preceding year during the Seven Years War against France. It is an anthem to triumph under difficult circumstances, since the war did not start well. It calls for common sailors doing their best and making success out of what you are given, regardless of the odds. And, of course, it hails from the days when ships were made from wood, principally Irish oak, which any boat builder will tell is noted for its strength, even in the worst that sea and storm could throw at you.

Douglas Hugh Rutherford was the Heart of Oak. No one I have known had the character and fortitude to pitch in, solve any problem, answer any question, regardless of how difficult the dilemma or who asked. His sage advice, so tempered with plain, ordinary and implacable wisdom was available to anyone who would ask. And, his quiet resolve to just be the best person possible, a kind, loving, and gentle man, provided the example that anyone could wilfully aspire to emulate. Regardless of the worst that sea and storm could throw, his heart was Irish oak.

My last conversation with him was the Sunday before he died. It was so much like him. He had just recently learned that he had a malignant brain tumour. And, when we talked about it, he said,” You know, it’s so small that they know it’s there but it’s still too small to find. So, we’ll just make do with what we get. I’ve done everything I’ve wanted to. I‘m happy. If my time comes, I’m content with that.”

I don’t know if it was prophetic, or simply just the way he was.

If you’ve ever seen a state funeral, you will hear the expression, “We lost a great man today.” But, what is “great?” There are certainly many ways to measure the worth of a man. I have a favourite: that you measure someone by what they see as their life’s accomplishments. I know what Dad saw as his, and they are sitting in the rows of this church: his family; wife, brother, children, their wives and spouses, grandchildren and great-grandchildren; and his friends… the many who loved and respected him. These are what Dad saw as his accomplishments… and he was damned proud of them. And that pride should make everyone in this church, and those who wished so hard but couldn’t make it today, equally as proud… and happier for what he brought to our lives.

It seems my ongoing surgery merry-go-round just doesn’t want to end. What we originally thought were two fluid pockets on the December incision appears to be an incisional hernia. I’ve been referred to the surgeon and, as my doctor said, “Back to the body shop for you.”

For those unfamiliar, a hernia is a weakness in the abdominal wall. In my case, the weakness doesn’t run in the normal direction up-and-down because muscle tissue separated. Instead, mine developed because of the repair work and the cutting of tissue along the incision from my last surgery. What causes this? There are lots of reasons, although the chief suspect is the fall I had right before Christmas on an icy sidewalk (see a previous post). Also, infection can contribute and, of course, my incision got rather infected as well. Then, any abdominal incision can develop a hernia. And, as my family doctor states, “Oh, you’ve just let go completely, haven’t you?” I really needed that amount of detail. Anyway, the bottom line is that my abdominal wall has a weak spot and my small intestine is trying to escape through it.

So, I presently wait for the appointment with the surgeon to get some idea of when it’s going to be repaired. They sew everything together and then sew a plastic mesh over the top to keep it that way. Think of it as getting a new front grill.

I’m back to my current line of thinking. I’m hoping that, if all else fails, I’m using up someone else’s bad luck for them and they’ll be spared something of their own. Maybe, if there is such a thing, karma may kick in, preferably in conjunction with a lottery ticket…

I’ve come to the conclusion that the old expression is particularly true. Actually, Ginsberg’s Law may be more so. “You can’t win, you can’t break even and you can’t get out of the game.”

Clara was volunteering for the Arctic Winter Games and went to her shift at the Games Centre yesterday morning. Since our luck has been generally awful lately, she slipped near the entrance to the Games Centre and broke her arm. Apparently, several other people fell and complained that the parking lot was rather icy; however, Public Works hadn’t come up to sand the lot by that point so, down she went.

She called me to tell me what happened and, since I was taking Katrina to the airport first, I said I’d meet her at the hospital. A little while later, she called to say I had to pick her up at the Games Centre. Since it wasn’t a life or death situation, the ambulances on site for the Games are for athletes, not volunteers. In other words, she fell about 7 am and didn’t even get to the hospital until about 8:30.

The good news is that she broke her right arm and is left handed. It was a clean break and still in alignment so she only needs a sling and not a cast or surgery. She goes off for more X-rays and sees the doctor again next week.

You would think, at this point, we would be tired of visiting the hospital…

All the ducks seem to be in a row for a great time on St. Patrick’s Day. I’m playing at our new neighbourhood pub which Clara and I have grown quite fond of. It’s got quite nice atmosphere and good food. I’ll throw in the additional benefit of the prices being quite reasonable.

If you’re in town and looking for a bit of a time, drop in. Musicians for the open stage are always welcome.

It starts at 8 and ends… whatever. The place closes at 12 normally, but their license is good until 2 AM so if things are still hopping, they’ll hop for a bit more time…

 

“The rumours of my death are greatly exaggerated.”
Mark Twain, June 2, 1897
Grumpy Squirrel, February 8, 2012