Dad’s old toolbox tells me so much about his life

Dad’s old toolbox tells me so much about his life

By Jim Coyle

My father was born into tragedy(ˈtrajədē) and a world that no longer exists, a two-room Irish(ˈīriSH) cottage(ˈkädij) with thatched(THaCH) roof, stone floor, no electricity(əˌlekˈtrisədē) or plumbing(ˈpləmiNG). His own father had been born in an Irish workhouse. His mother died five days after giving birth to him in the spring of 1931. My father’s schooling ended in the seventh grade(grād). There was no money. There was not much of anything, save the scraping(ˈskrāpiNG) of subsistence(səbˈsistəns) from the bogs(bäg,bôg) and stony(ˈstōnē) hills(hil).

At 14, my father went to work in a limestone(ˈlīmˌstōn) quarry(ˈkwä-,ˈkwôrē). At 17, he left for better prospects(ˈpräsˌpekt) on the building sites(sīt) of Scotland(ˈskätlənd). Four years later, he sailed(sāl) from Southampton(souTHˈ(h)am(p)tən) for Halifax(ˈhaləˌfaks) and the promise(ˈpräməs) of Canada(ˈkanədə), my mother soon to follow. He arrived in this country with three pals(pal), little education, little money and a cardboard suitcase(ˈso͞otˌkās). He had worked up until three days before leaving Scotland. He had a job in a Toronto(təˈräntō) lumberyard(ˈləmbərˌyärd) three days after he arrived in March, 1953.

He never really looked back. This was his country now. In Canada, he built a life and a family, had a chance to drink from the Stanley(ˈstanlē) Cup, carried(ˈkarē) the Canadian(kəˈnādēən) flag for the legion(ˈlējən) he belonged to in a Remembrance(rəˈmembrəns) Day parade(pəˈrād).

He never had much money, and during leaner(lēn) years, didn’t have enough. What needed repairing(rəˈper), he fixed. Much of what he dreamed of, he built. He had an aptitude(ˈaptəˌt(y)o͞od) for figuring out how things worked. He had the stubbornness(ˈstəbərnnəs) of a team of mules(myo͞ol). He took pride(prīd) in self-sufficiency(səˈfiSHənsē). He rebuilt much of the house his family grew up in, finished the cottage he retired to, bought only one new car in his life. For most of his life, he tended toward battered(ˈbatərd) old heaps he purchased on their last legs and from which he squeezed(skwēz) a few more years.

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