He was an amazing person

No, for once, I am not reminiscing about my son, but rather the man I called “Dad”.

For some reason, he has been on my mind a lot lately; I don’t really know why.

I was four months old when he and my Mum brought me home from the Protestant Orphans Home in what was then Lancaster, NB. From that point on, he and I formed a special bond unencumbered by either his total blindness or my childish antics.

I waited every day for him to come home from his work as a piano tuner. He’d come through the door, no doubt physically exhausted, but always ready to play with me for a while. He was the first ‘horsey’ I rode around our living room. He was the one I went to with scraped knees that needed tending or, when I was older, a broken heart from someone’s slight.

He was born in 1911 in Albert County, NB. From birth, he suffered from “Infantile Glaucoma” that stole most of his vision. When he was ten years old, a childish mishap caused his ‘good’ eye to be injured, and he lost what little sight he had. In 1921, there weren’t a lot of sophisticated surgical options that might have preserved some of his sight (nor could his farming parents have afforded it even if it were available). So, both eyes were removed and replaced with artificial glass eyes.

I’ve heard amazing stories about him. My uncle told me of days on the farm when Dad, as a young boy, would take the reins of their workhorse hitched to the hay wagon and skillfully back it down the rough track from the hayfield to the barn loft and up the ramp to the inside, where the loose hay would be forked off onto the floor of the loft to feed the cattle below. I’ve seen that road and what is left of the ramp and the barn. There’s no way I could back a horse and wagon down that trail and up that ramp without mishap. But, he did it.

It was a skill he later used when my mother bought their first car. We lived in a rented flat in the south end of Saint John and shared a narrow (barely 1-car wide) driveway with the house next door for off-street parking. My mother was a talented musician and teacher, and she was a reasonably good driver – except for backing out of that driveway. She’s always cut the wheels too sharply and end up banging into one house or the other. After a few such mishaps, my dad and I came up with an alternative.

Dad would go out in the morning and walk around the parked car, stopping to touch each wheel to discover how they’d been angled the night before. He also reached out to touch the walls on either side of the car to estimate how much room he had to maneuver.

My job was to stand on the street and let him know if any pedestrian or car traffic was coming. Once it was clear, he’d carefully back the car out until I let him know the nose had cleared the houses. Then, he’d put the car in park, and he and I would go into the house. Only then would my mother come out, finish backing out into the street and head off to whatever was her destination for the day.

Our neighbours, who all knew he was totally blind, were always astounded by this process.

The tales of his prowess as both a piano tuner and an accomplished pianist himself are legion. More important are the many tales of his legendary kindness to people and animals.

If there was a piano on any stage or in any home in Saint John and its environs during the 1940s, ’50s or ’60s, he probably tuned it. His reputation was such that a number of famous musicians who visited the city to perform would request that he be the only tuner allowed to prepare a piano for their concerts.

He adored my son, David, and I know it would have broken his heart when David died two years ago. I wish our grandchildren had had the chance to meet my amazing dad. The only way they’ll ever know anything about him is if they read my blog.