Ancestors in Paradise
Nowadays up in paradise
- that's paradise with a lower-case "p" -
my dad is ninety-two.
Working only daytime hours,
he's "got 'er scald":
seven-thirty to three-thirty,
six-figure salary with bonuses,
no abattoir,
no dank basement,
no cold temps,
three months holidays a year;
paradise found.
Home on a sunny afternoon,
gentle breezes blowing,
lots of time in a Muskoka chair
to relax,
read the paper,
check the obituary section
to see who "gave up smoking",
sip a scotch and soda,
near the spruce and maple trees
he planted years before,
when he and the family
came to the neighbourhood.
Flowers grow well in paradise,
nice weather all the time
except for occasional rain
or fog on holidays
and holy days of obligation.
Dad gets his outfit ready
for the family gathering;
has it all out from the dresser:
dress pants,
Newfoundland tartan shirt,
socks that might need to be darned.
The smile never leaves his face.
The "time" is at Aunt Kay's;
everyone's there at every point
of their lives simultaneously.
At one time they would have thought
"That's impossible." Not anymore.
It used to be
they were not always well-off.
Now they're content, merry.
At all times everyone is "best kind".
At all times everyone is pleasant.
Dad chats with anyone and everyone,
eyes glowing with love and pride.
Brightness abounds.
It's a happy place.
Cherubim and seraphim
bring feeds of Jigg's dinner,
wings n' chips from Crane's Snack Bar,
toutons n' lassy from Smith's Convenience,
cod tongues n' cheeks fresh from the wharf,
moonshine from Larry the Shiner,
molasses raisin bread
made with love from Aunt Bert:
a "dirty big scoff".
They sing "Feller from Fortune"
and "The Ryans and the Pittmans"
and "Black Velvet Band".
Aunt Bert deals out the cards
(she's been known to cheat, even now),
a rousing game of 120's
on the kitchen table.
They figure, later on, they'll fry up some
salt beef, potatoes, carrots, turnips and onions:
the biggest pan of hash.
Dick Nolan on the record player,
singing "Aunt Martha's Sheep".
The booze never stops flowing:
beer, rum, scotch and 'shine.
Everyone gets merry, feeling the buzz
but no one gets really drunk,
or "polluted" or "ossified"
or "three sheets to the wind",
and no one has a problem with that.
Everyone seems to know
you don't have to be inebriated
to have a good time.
Another time they'd have thought
"That's unbelievable."
Uncle Gerard chimes in with the Irish songs.
He waltzes with Aunt Irene as he sings.
Suddenly, the fog rolls in, grey and dense.
Soon they're saying good-bye,
hugs, kisses, best wishes.
Dad helps his mother,
Kathleen Mary O'Neill,
down the wooden steps
and on the path towards her saltbox house.
He hasn't seen her face since he was twenty-three -
some sixty-nine years.
The joy on his face
reflects the glow on hers.
Gerard stands in the doorway
and softly plays his accordion.
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