Chapter 10: The Best Day and the Worst Day

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— Full chapters will appear in the printed published book. —

How my life had changed so quickly. Just a short time before, my days were full of fun activities with neighbours, friends and classmates. On holidays, I could sleep as long as I wanted and could play all day long as I wished. I could watch a variety of stimulating and entertaining TV shows in the evening. I could go to the bathroom, turn on the faucet, and wash my face with warm water. I could simply turn up the thermostat if the house got too cold. In British Columbia, the climate was moderate. Snow fell in December and melted by March and I never felt very cold. I did not realize how lucky I had been.

Now it was all so different. Winter came early and was extremely cold and long. I was not permitted to sleep past 6 a.m., not on any day of the week, not even an extra 10 minutes to doze off. I did farm work in the morning before school and at night after school. We had no TV (at least not one that worked) nor running water. Our farmhouse was heated with wood from trees that we, ourselves, cut down with chain saws, hauled to the house, sawed into short pieces with a bow saw, and chopped into smaller pieces with an axe. Our home lives were focused on basic survival. I trudged behind the house through mud or snow to use the outhouse, which was putridly smelly in the summer, full of flies and spiders, and in winter, my bum almost froze to the seat. I had very little leisure time at home, and no opportunities to play with others after school. Every waking hour at home was controlled by Cliff and we followed his orders.

In spite of this living arrangement, I was a content child. I believed I was happy. My dream of living on a beautiful farm was as far from reality as could be, but I accepted it for what it was. I was constantly learning new things and taking in the world around me. Except for my dad, my family was with me. My mother was there if I needed her. I had people around me, even if some of them were very strange and one was particularly mean. From my perspective, things were all right. For now.

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Raymond and I came into the house to find my mom, Cliff and Bruce sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for us, very sombre looking. They told us to sit down. I was immediately suspicious, and also nervous and a bit scared. Something must have happened. This was not the usual way that Cliff greeted us.

“Your father has passed away,” my mom said, her face devoid of expression. “He shot and killed himself.”

I sat there, absolutely stunned. I didn’t know what to do or say. My dad was gone? Forever?

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Since my father was Catholic, the funeral was held in the Catholic church in Eagle River. I sat in the front row next to my mother, near my dad’s open coffin. From there, I could see only the tip of my dad’s nose protruding above the edge. My mom encouraged me to go up and look inside the coffin, so I went closer but did so only with her by my side. I could not tell where the bullet had gone into his head. The undertakers were very skilled at patching up the gunshot wound.

My mother told me that my dad fired the gun twice. The first shot grazed his face, the second shot killed him. It took me some time to take that in. Maybe he was thinking that he could just injure himself enough to garner sympathy that way. Maybe he was shaking so much that he missed the first time. These were things that I would never know.

My mother said I should touch him. “Go ahead, don’t be scared. Touch him.” I did not want to. I did not want my last memory of my dad to be a feeling of coldness. I wanted to remember him as a warm human being, not as a cold, stiff, lifeless corpse.

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There was nothing disgraceful about what my father did. He was lonely. He had lost everything in his life that was dear to his heart, he had lost his entire family. He lived in a dreary old shack that smelt of creosote. He couldn’t visit me or my brothers because my mother wouldn’t let him.

I would never blame my father at all for what he did. I wouldn’t blame myself either or anyone else. Even though I could have done things for him, I was too young at that time to be blamed for causing something as terrible as that. I have often wished that he would have lived longer for me to grow up, because I knew I would have learned how to show more appreciation and love. My life might have been quite different with my father in it. In a year or two, I was sure I would have phoned him often. He always loved me, I knew that without any doubt in the world. But I was just a child and I did not have the chance to get to know him very well.

The day was fitting for a funeral — cold, austere and bleak. The sun did not shine on that dreary February day. I watched as they lowered my dad’s casket into the ground. I do not recall even one person at the funeral talking to me that day, other than my mother.

We went straight back to our miserable Minnitaki farmhouse afterwards. There was no reception. Was it because it was a suicide and this was shameful? Was it because my mother didn’t want to arrange anything because it was too much trouble, few people would come, or she didn’t have money for it? Was it because my mother had left him, taken his children and moved in with another man, thereby feeling some guilt or responsibility for the death? Was it because my mother didn’t want to talk to anyone? Or was it for some other reason? Maybe Cliff wouldn’t let her. Maybe people would think it very outlandish to have a reception when the wife of the deceased had left him only a few months before.

The title of the obituary notice in the newspaper, the Dryden Observer, read “Last Rites for Peter Freak.” It seemed so strange to see his name printed in the paper. The notice referred to his survivors: his wife Edith, his brothers Felix and Bernard, and his three sons and one daughter. His children were not even mentioned by name. Reading it in the paper made it feel real and final. My dad no longer existed.

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I wished that someone would give me a hug. That would have been something.

And then, as if nothing had happened, life continued on as it had before. Except for us on the farm, it slowly got worse.