Apartment 1001 re-visited

Looking out onto Kempenfelt Bay, you would never know anything had changed.  The waters were calm.  No Serendipity – the local tourist paddle-boat – yet, but other than that it looked just the same as it did a year ago. 

I turned to my oldest son, Ben, and took a deep breath.  It was time to leave apartment 1001.

They say your life flashes before you just before you leave this earth – snippits of my life with my family flashed before me as I walked through the patio to the dining room where we were always so careful that Dad did not lose his footing while climbing over the step to return to his pink chair after enjoying the night air.  It was a ritual almost – Mom would cling onto his belt buckle (as if she could hold him should he fall) and I would hold on to his walker to secure it from moving forward un-expectantly. 

I walked past where the dining-room table was – where so many meals were served.  Here too, was the place where toasts were made to life, anniversaries, birthdays, births… even commemorations of deaths.  But I heard joy in the voices in my head – I remember the good times, the laughter, and the oh, so delicious food Mom had so lovingly prepared. 

I walked past where Dads pink chair had once been – where David climbed onto the walker in front of Dad so that he could be so much better positioned to hop on Poppas lap and give him a hug.  The pink chair was the focus – the inhabitant (my Dad) was always the centre of attention.  Was he warm enough?  Was he hungry?  Was he able to hear the conversation? Did he tune us out to read? 

I walked past the couch – where we had danced.  I watched my daughter, Katya, twirl and spin and laugh.  I heard David giggle with delight as Nana ordered a steak and baked potato from his make-believe restaurant.  I knew she hoped that his culinary interest would continue and be her own little legacy. I saw Katya standing there, dressed in Nanas black lace dress – hand-made so many years ago.  No one but Katya could fit into that waist line anymore… but three generations had worn that dress – and Katya was the last of the lineage…

I walked down the hallway to peer into Moms room as Dad had so many times before.  Was Paula there?  Was she asleep?  Was she ironing or sewing?  The room was empty – and full all at the same time.  I thought if I looked quickly I could see her smiling at me as she was waking up from a quick afternoon rest… rarely did that happen, but it always seemed to comfort me that she could rest.

I walked down the hall to Dads room – the room where it had all ended — I expected to see him there.  But, alas, neither bed, nor Poppa were to be seen.  Ben heard me and came to see if I was okay – my 6 foot son put his arm around me and we both stood there knowing how happy Nana and Poppa would be that he grew up to be such a fine, young man.  You done good, kid, I heard my Dad say.  And with that, my son Ben and I turned around and left.  Buenos noches, Poppa – hasta manana – TTFN.  Sleep well. I love you both! 

It was odd, locking the door for the last time.  I did not cry.  They were not there.  I did not feel compelled to open the door quickly to check to see if I could sneak a peek.  Bill and Paula had definitely left the building. 

And so it was that today was our last glimpse of what was once a very happy household.  It was now my turn to provide that stability, comfort, and sense of belonging in my  own home.  I always said to my parents that my home had been wherever they were – now it is with my family and I.  Apartment 1001 is now us.. my husband, three children, and I. 

June 25, 1944

Preamble:  I found a journal that Dad used to write in.  I guess it’s okay if I read and repeat now… I’m not sure where he began his stories.  I’ll just repeat from the first page.  These entries are now “history”.  Fascinating to read about his experiences and feelings.  Hope you enjoy.  I shall publish excerpts from his diary from time to time.

 

June 25, 1944

“Left Brantford at 12:00 arrived Toronto 1:30.  Picked up airman going to Christie Street who had been washed out as a pilot – had been in navy prior to this and survived one torpedoing.  Left for New Lowell 3:30 and got home via Barrie 5:30. Went to YPS  and played crocinole. Rather boring evening.  Sure wish I was back with Paula. “

 

June 26, 1944

“Slept till noon.  Went to Creemore but saw very few people I knew.  Dropped in at Mumberson’s on the way back and got all the news of Bob who is away overseas.  Federation of Agriculture meeting here tonight – Dad is President.  Would have liked to go out but stayed and met everyone.  Very pleasant surprise today – letter from Paula.  Mailed an answer tonight.”

Haven’t seen this game for years!

 

At the Royal Military College in Kingston

This photo was taken during our cousin’s graduation at the Royal Military College (RMC) in Kingston on the day that Dad was re-acquainted with Leonard Birchall.

Mom was always very proud of Dad and it was her who spiffed him up, medals and all, to look so handsome.

This photo was taken at a Kent Duff’s graduation.

There’ll be bluebirds over….

…the white cliffs of Dover.  This was the song that greeted Dad on the phone each time Jack MacArthy phoned him.  Check it out:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YUx3MU9iM6c&feature=related

Jack and Dad, Flight Lieutenant William James Duff, went back a long way. I wish that I had payed more attention to details about him when Dad talked about him – as now I simply don’t have the answers.

What I do know is that when my son, Ben, and I introduced ourselves to Jack at the George Duff Memorial Legion in New Lowell today – Jack greeted us with a very wide smile.  ”Oh, my.  I’m so glad that you spoke to me.  I’m so sorry to hear about your Dad.  He was a very good man.  And your Mom, Paula, she was very beautiful.  I ran into she and your Dad many times in Barrie when my wife Helen and Paula were having their blood work done. “, said Jack.

“My Dad remembered you always, Jack, so fondly.  I always knew when you had called because Dad was sure to tell me.  But, what I don’t know is what song it was that you used to sing to him.”

And Jack began to sing, “There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover”.

How wonderful it was to hear that song.  Jack’s chest was literally covered with medals of honour.  He is 93.  He looked great.  What a spirit.  What a voice.

Jack MacArthy, of New Lowell, introduced me to his family and he to mine.  It was clear that Ben, my son, was not of the “Duff” blood as he towers over all of us and Jack noted this difference.  ”How proud he was of all of you.  He spoke so often of you and your family, Stacey, that I know all about them. ”  Jack commented.

It was an honour to be there in New Lowell today.  It was a necessary.  We were representing not only Dad, but his Dad – George Hunt Duff – after whom the New Lowell legion was named.  Their photos hung in prominent places both in the Legion and in our hearts.

To Dad and Grandpa – we salute you and thank-you for your contributions to family and country.  In peace may you rest, may we never forget.

TTFN

10 000

When I first began this blog with my Dad, he was shocked that people were interested in his stories.

When he recorded 30 hits he said, “Why would anyone be interested in my life?”.

I said, “Dad, you stories are interesting and very historical if nothing else. “

He said, “Hmm.  Well I just don’t see it.”

Now, although he is gone, his blog, “High Flight” is nearing 10 000 hits.  He would be over the moon.

I wonder if you, the readers, would be able to fulfill a request?

Could Dad get 10 000 hits to honour his memory and contributions for Remembrance Day tomorrow?

Some of his first stories (some hundred posts ago) contain “his” stories in “his” words – about his WWII experiences.

Would you please take time to read his thoughts – in memory and honour of Bill Duff?

On his behalf, thank-you for caring.

Stacey

Thanks for remembering…

This is a conversation I would imagine having with my Dad, Flight Lieutenant William James Duff,  at this time of the year:  Remembrance Day.

Dad (Bill):  Stacey, I want you to thank Ryan, the young man who gave you the model Catalina Flying Boat for me.

Stacey:  I already did Dad.  It was so amazing that her took the time and effort to not only find, but purchase, and bring that model airplane to my school.  Was it the right model?

Dad:  Yes.  Although, of course the model is much smaller than the life- version.  It was a big aircraft and could fly for miles without refueling.  That’s one of the reasons it was so favored overseas because of the distance it could travel.

Stacey:  What’s it like now, Dad?  Do you mark this day in Heaven?

Dad:  Well, it’s a little different here, Stace.

Stacey:  I guess if I asked you in what way, you wouldn’t be able to tell me?

Dad:  Not exactly.  All I can tell is that there is no pain, no more tears, no more mourning for the friends I lost.

Stacey:  I always remember growing up that Remembrance Day was the one time EVER I saw you cry.  I really didn’t understand it at the time.

Dad:  How could you?  No one can really imagine what it was like.  You had to be there.  It wasn’t all bad, though, Stacey.  We had the opportunity to travel to some wonderful places and meet some really good people.  The guys I was with in India  - we became very close.  The war brought a lot of people together in some very unlikely circumstances.  I always felt so fortunate that I was able to learn how to fly a plane.  I was in love with the idea of flying ever since I was a kid and a plane crashed in a field in New Lowell.  I think it was there that my interest in flying – not crashing (grin) – peaked.

Stacey:  It’s strange, Dad, that you are able to take good from such a terrible time.

Dad:  What are you going to do, Stacey?  You need to see the positive in everything.  No sense in complaining about things.  This is a very sad time for me and for so many families – don’t get me wrong.  But we all did what we felt we had to do and we all felt that we were doing something that was “right” and “good”.  I don’t know whether or not it was the right thing – even to this day.

Stacey:  You mean there are still no answers, Dad.

Dad:  Oh, there are answers, but we can still hold differences of opinions… we just don’t need war to solve the difference here, Stacey.

Stacey:  Good to talk to you again, Dad.  I’m not going to lay a wreath tomorrow – but I am going to the George Duff Memorial for you and Grandpa.   Anything you want me to say or do?

Dad:  No.  Just being there is enough.  And, Stacey, thanks for remembering.

Stacey:  I love you, Dad.

Dad:  Love you to, Stace.

TTFN

The Dew May Kiss the Butterfly…

“The dew may kiss the butterfly,

A man may kiss his wife good-by,

The sparkling wine may kiss the glass,

And you, my friend…. farewell.”

Okay, I never liked this poem whose origin I never knew – but Dad would be called upon at EVERY celebration to recite it.

Funny how this poem’s most avid supporter is gone, the poem has now become “mine”.  I don’t know if it becomes me – but it makes people laugh.

Martin – if you read this post – I dedicate this to you – not to say farewell – but to say, “thanks”.  You showed up at the right place and at the right time.  And you know Dad’s light flickered in appreciation.  You were always a great friend to Dad and now a great support to my family and I.  Merci and… Sante!

The table was set in the cemetery – a glass of wine for everyone. It was a celebration that Dad would have wanted and Mom would have prepared.

Lobster Tales

I was exposed to lobster tales when I was knee-high to a grasshopper.

I guess Dad’s loyalty to the industry came from his days of patrolling the Northumberland Straits during World War II.  He and his buddies, when on break, would often be invited to visit lighthouses where a feast of lobster would be served.  Some of the lighthouse operators had daughters, and, Dad would explain to me that pilots in those days were considered a pretty good catch themselves.  I guess Dad was no exception.  (He only had eyes for my beautiful mother at that time and so the lighthouse “Dads” were out of luck before they even knew it!)

In any case – it was here where Dad learned the fine art of cracking and consuming lobster.

There was no part of the lobster spared when Dad was through – other than the eyes and the shell.  Even the legs and the material already digested by the lobster itself was “succulent”, as Dad would describe it.

I remember Dad recounting a story about how he and Mom went to dine with their friends Floyd and Francis in Dundas one time.  On the “all -you – can – eat” menu was lobster.  I guess it wasn’t really all you can eat as Dad’s feast was halted after 13 lobsters.

And it wasn’t just the fact that he ate the pre-digested green stuff that had people stunned, it was that he was given everyone else’s carcus with pre-digested material too.  So – imagine at the end of the feast there would be over 20 lobsters waiting for Dad to “enjoy”.

Lobster – which is why Red Lobster was our dining choice after Dad’s inurnment – has been an important meal to the Duff family.  It would be served to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, and the arrival of special guests. Of course, accompanying the lobster would be Dad’s home-made wine – the body-builder.

Dad always said the best part of the lobster is the tail – but I’ve always liked the lobster “tales” better.  Grin.

TTFN

Really – reel to reel

Bill and Paula Duff with Bill and June Malloff in Nassau.

The box was larger than a bread basket, but smaller than a television (the old ones!),  and it was very well bound with packing tape.

The label screamed at me. “Bill and Paula Duff”.  Egad.  This was a real treasure trove!  Here, in this box, were Mom and Dad’s memories.

When Jamie and I were investigating the things Mom stored in the pantry of their condo, we discovered two boxes of reel-to-reel film.  Of course, Mom had also preserved the projector, splicer, and old camera and these sat well organized right beside the movies.  We took the old movies out to examine what was there.  ”New Lowell, Duffs, and Malloff Clan”, read the labels from one box of movies.  This was the series that was to be developed first.

Costco prints old reel-to-reel to DVD at a very good price and so… off they went.. and yesterday …. here they were.

Finally, the box was freed from tape and I carefully open the flap.  There it was – ONE DVD.  On the outside were images (59 in total) of every “scene” that was contained on the DVD.  There was also a label warning that some of the film had been over-exposed, some under-exposed, and some with dust, hair… and whatnot.  How would the movies look afterall?  I didn’t really care – I just knew I was holding fast to history.  And it was to be a history that revealed a world through the eyes of Mom and Dad.  What had they seen?   What had they deemed to be important enough to film?  Who were their friends?  How had they lived?  All these questions would be answered – presently.

I slid the DVD into the player, with the help of my 9 year old I might add, and suddenly there they were – Mom and Dad in 59 scenes.  ”Which scene would you like to choose?”,  opted the play menu.  I chose “Play from the beginning”.

Fantastic. Costco had added music – their music – the music of the 40s and 50s.

Fantastic.  Mom and Dad were dancing.  It was a party.  Mom and Dad were serving turkey dinner to guests.  Mom was showing off her beautiful new gown to the camera.  Dad was shoveling snow.  Don Duff was mowing his lawn.  Lou Duff was pushing her daughter Nancy on the swing.  The animals in the zoo were racing around.  The flamingos in Nassau were nibbling at their lunch.  The lighthouses in PEI appeared far below from the plane where Dad had obviously flown over.  The Hepplestons and Duffs were together – eating – laughing.  There was a lot of laughter.  It seemed everyone was laughing.  I think I saw Grandma and Grandpa Malloff – but I couldn’t be sure as I had never met them.  And there was the house that Dad built for Mom and Dad in New Lowell.

History.

It was rich.

I was watching history that no one else at that moment had access to.

I must figure out how to copy this history to embed it into this blog.

I must figure out how to copy the DVD to offer these special images to my cousins.

It is funny how video can transcend time.  I am so blessed to have known my parents as adults.  I am so curious now to know about my parents as a young couple.  I am so blessed to have just a little insight into the young Bill and Paula through reel-to-reel.

Just a Poor Dirt Farmer’s Sweater…

Dad’s “poor dirt farmer” sweater began like this one, I’m sure.

It is a warm and cozy cardigan that goes with just about everything.

When I wear it I feel comfortable and secure.

Dad’s “poor dirt farmer” sweater felt like that to him too, I’m sure.

The original was warm and comfortable and, much to Mom’s chagrin, went with everything.

When he wore it, he felt comfortable and secure … I’m sure.

Dad’s sweater was probably 20 years old – or more, and the elbows had worn through on it.  Mom wanted to patch it – but Dad would have nothing of it – it was comfortable the way it was.

Most of Dad’s clothes were old – he was of the age when things would be worn for practical purposes – not fashion.   Again, this was much to Mom’s chagrin.  Mom was very fashionable – a bit of a diva in her time – without the attitude.

Cleaning out Dad’s closet today revealed an array of clothes that lay in testimony to this “practical” side.  I found his farmer’s hat, complete with sweat stains that were well established through his toils in the raspberry patch.  What to do with it?  Well, it went into a separate pile that just can’t be negotiated at this point.   I found golf shirts that dated back to the farm when he wore them for guests.  Yes, they may have been a little thinner and faded through use and time, but they were still functional.  ”Don’t throw them out, Stacey.” , echoed in my mind.  ”I don’t need any new clothes. The clothes I have are fine.”  But I HAD purchased multiple pairs of pants for him in the latter years that had an elastic waist – much easier to slip on and off in emergencies.  The Bay was not going to carry them anymore I found out last Christmas and, anticipating that Dad would never die, I bought 6 new pairs.  There they were – neatly folded waiting to be used.  sigh.   I can only hope some lucky person finds them as useful as Dad did.

Two of Dad’s sweaters came home with me.  I am wearing one now during this very rainy day.  I think I will wear them for 20 years or more.  The only issue is that I am not a farmer and so can only imagine what “my” title will be?  The Poor Dirt Farmer’s Daughter?  Ah.  I could only be so lucky.

Dad’s “poor dirt farmer” sweater began like this one, I’m sure.

It was a warm and cozy cardigan that went with just about everything.

When I wear it I feel comfortable and secure.

I feel like Dad is with me.

One day, my sweater may be a “Sunday” kind of sweater too – no holes barred!

Grin

TTFN