Father’s Day

Fule for Thought

 

My dad immigrated to Canada in 1950. He knew there’d be a better life for him because Europe was so ravaged during World War II. As a kid growing up in the 60’s, WWII vets were still young and some had stories to tell.  

All my friends had fathers who fought for the Allies. For me, it was always hard when talk with friends turned to the War, or playing “Combat.”  

My dad had been forced to fight for the Germans, and sadly, I always felt a little shame, and sometimes I was teased. My dad only told me that he had been a truck driver in the War, but had been captured by the British.

His stories were only about their camp and how well the British treated them, as soldiers. Even with good treatment, conditions were very harsh. The prisoners would wait for the Red Cross shipments of clothing, food, chocolate, even cigarettes. He told me that one warm Spring day, he and his fellow prisoners were so lice infested, they couldn’t stand it anymore. So, they stripped and buried their clothing so that only part of a sleeve or pant leg would be out of the dirt. The lice would absolutely cover that piece of clothing to get to the warm air, and that’s when they would tear off the piece, shake it off, and get dressed again.

After 2.5 years in a prison camp, my dad was desperate to get home to see his family. The War had just ended, and a common soldier could be released if he had a serious medical or dental problem. Somehow, my dad secured a pair of pliers, and had other prisoners hold him down, so they could pull out his teeth! I asked him how he could go through with this, but he just said, prison camp for that long was terrible, the barracks were not warm in Winter, and all suffered … he was desperate to go home.  

He finally wound up on a train car near his village. By this time, however, the Russians were beginning to  take over the country. Armed soldiers kept others and dad on the car for two weeks. Finally, my dad had enough of living like this, so he began his trek across Europe, where he worked at various places in order to get a ship ticket to Halifax. He would never see his mother again, and it would be 25 years until he reunited with his father, and family.

My dad was a contract coal miner in Canmore, which meant he got paid by the number of coal cars filled. That meant you would have to work very hard your whole shift, in order to get a decent pay. There was never any “slacking off” for all these miners. One day, he was helping to hand couple two coal cars together. If cars were coming up the track, someone was always to warn the others … no one did this day. The cars smashed together with his head between! Luckily, his helmet split and he was not killed. Instead, he was left with a very large bump on his head. As long as I knew him, it was always there. As kids, we thought it was funny … it jiggled when you touched it, and we’d try to color it while he slept on the couch! He’d never let a doctor remove it!

Payday at the mine was always special for my brother and me. Dad would surprise us with some kind of toy, plus an allowance. We’d rush to the store and for a dollar, we’d each buy eight comics, and still have change! It was the comics that got me reading, and looking back, they were the start of me wanting to be an English/PE teacher. Every day my dad would have to clean the coal dust out of his ears and eyes.  

He’d look at me watching, and he’d tell me no matter what, “you’re never going to be a miner.”   

Any job he did, he worked hard at it, to give my brother and I a good life. I know they always ate cheaper meats, so that Gary and I could have the better cuts. He took in my mom’s youngest brother and helped him get established as a Canadian.  

Dad never felt he was a Hungarian-Canadian … he was proud to become a Canadian, and that’s what he was. My parents even took in two of my cousins for six months, as their home life was damaged by their parents’ alcohol issues and fights. He was always so generous to people, even all my friends knew that the Fules’ door, and FRIDGE door was always open to them!

Later, to my children, he was absolutely devoted. He loved the fact that he had both a grandson AND granddaughter. He bought bunk beds so they could have sleepovers and watch movies. Simple outings like feeding ducks at a creek were the best things for him, and he was very happy to be with them.

On June 30 1997, my dad phoned us while Breanne and I were grocery shopping. When we got back, Deb told me about the call, and suggested I call him back. I said that I’d call him the next day and touch base.  

There would be no next day, as he had a massive heart attack, while packing his truck/boat for fishing. When we got the call, I cried so much I hurt all over. I felt so guilty … I had blown the chance to talk to him one last time, and all because I was too lazy to phone back. It has haunted me since then. In fact, a week later, we were cleaning his mobile home out for the sale. I don’t know why, but I pressed the button on dad’s answering machine. I fell back on a chair when his voice came on … I was stunned, and once again, felt the loss of him. I had the chance to speak with him the day before he died, and now all I had was this recording … I played it over and over, listening to him … wishing he WAS on the phone. 

 

(“Fule for Thought” is a slice of life humourous column that will appear in the Strathmore Times, written by long-time resident, town councillor, high school teacher, coach, husband and father of two – Pat Fule. If you would like to get in touch with Pat, you can send him an e-mail at Pat.fule@shaw.ca)