Nine years ago, I wrote a blog called, “In search of my father” on my original blog, Recover Your Joy.
In it, I told the story of travelling a thousand kilometres from Calgary, to a tiny town tucked into the prairies of Southeast Saskatchewan. Gravelbourg.
Gravelbourg is the town my father first lived in when he came to Canada as a young boy.
While I was there, I wandered the streets my father walked when he was a boy. I visited the cathedral in which he served as an altar boy at mass. I visited the Bishop’s home where he and other boys who attended Collège Mathieu, the boarding school where he was sent as a young boy, sometimes visited with the Bishop who oversaw the district when the Cathédrale de Notre-Dame-de-l’Assomption was the seat of the diocese.
And I toured the almost deserted town of Mazenod, a few kilometres away. I went there because I discovered, via the school records, that my father’s father gave an address in Mazenod as his permanent address while my father was at school in Gravelbourg.
We never knew that, about our grandfather being close by while dad was at school. His story was always that he was sent, alone, to the school and only occasionally saw his Uncle Pat, who lived in Regina many kilometres away, on school holidays.
So many secrets. So many mysteries in the life of my father that will never be resolved.
He had no brothers or sisters. Though there was a half-sister in England who died many years ago. Even there my father’s penchant for secrets prevailed. The presence of an aunt on my father’s side of the family was never fully known by my sisters and brother.
Dad never talked about her. Until one day, he received a letter through veterans affairs. Inside that envelope was a letter from his sister.
My eldest sister called me when she found out. “So. What do you think about dad’s sister?” she asked.
“What sister?” I replied. “Dad doesn’t have a sister. He’s an only child.”
“Not anymore,” my sister said.
I promptly called my father to inquire.
“Her name is Phyllis,” he said.
“Why didn’t you ever tell us about her?” I asked.
“It didn’t seem relevant,” my father replied tersely.
For the next two years, my father and Phyllis corresponded via mail and telephone, both refusing to go see the other, though they both stated they wanted to meet again. Dad’s rationale was always that as she was the one looking for him, she needed to come to him.
The last time they’d seen each other was when dad was shipped off to boarding school from London, England and his mother left his father to live with another man. A man she’d been having an affair with for many years. Apparently, Phyllis was actually his daughter and so, she went with her mother to live in a new home while dad sailed across the Atlantic to take up residence in a new country.
Aunt Phyllis died before she and dad navigated the distance, the years and the pain between them.
My father passed away a few years later and carried the stories of his youth he’d never shared with him.
And still, sometimes in dreams and quiet moments, my father’s voice enters and whispers quietly in my heart. “You are a poet child,” he whispers. “Woven together of the warp and weft of stories threaded through your timeline shivering in harmony with the voices of the story whisperers of the past. Be brave. Give voice to the stories calling out to be told.”
This morning, I went in search of the posts I’d written about my father long ago. Thank you Bernie for your question! Aside from having to ignore the typos, I read the stories with fresh eyes and a heartful of gratitude and Love.
Listen. The muse whispers. The stories untold are awakening.
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In order of appearance, here are the stories — and btw — if you have never been to Gravelbourg it is a beautiful town set in the vast wild prairies. The cathedral alone is worth the visit!
Father Maillard’s Ode to Joy (This one has lots of photos of the town and the cathedral)
Dare Boldly 
I loved reading your three posts in search of your father (funny how we all seem to start on Blogspot and end up on WP).
My father told many tales of his youth but always felt lost in the sense that he never knew his own father. He found out about him in the Weekend Magazine that used to come on Saturdays with the Montreal Star. There he was on the cover. He brought it to his mother – I thought he was dead! She apparently fainted. By the time my father “found” him (despite my mother’s many urgings, he waited too long), he had passed away six months prior. So many things remained unanswered.
Sigh. Why is it we don’t take advantage of the time we are with our fathers to find out more?
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Wow — that’s an amazing story. And so sad too.
With my father, he simply refused to talk about it. Refused. Despite lots of urgings, he just couldn’t do it. I think his own pain was so deep, he daren’t look at it for he feared it would consume him or perhaps he’d drown in it.
Hugs Dale. ❤
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It is.
That is sad, too. His pain must have been very deep. My father loved sharing his stories. I’m just mad at myself for never recording or writing them down.
Hugs, back! 🤗
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You are so very fortunate Dale! Have you tried writing any of his stories out? It would be amazing I’m sure!
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I am. I haven’t but I have considered it. Maybe I can get my sisters to help in the remembering!
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You make me want to jump up and down and call out, “Go for it!” what a lovely project for sisters to undertake! ❤
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Laughing!
I think I’ll see if they’d be interested…
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My dad rarely talked about his family and childhood
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They came from an era of silent men who held their secrets close. ❤
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So many untold stories disappear when a parent, a sibling, family member or friend passes on. I truly believe that it is part of the enigma of human psyche. Some choose not to share, they have their reasons, whereas others choose to subconsciously or Maybe even consciously to forget. So when one ferrets out a story, a snippet of info and can pursue it, a treasure usually is uncovered. Maybe not the whole pot of gold is accessible but enough to add to a family’s history to be passed on. You are so lucky you could visit the places your Father lived.
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It was very special Iwona. Felt like a sacred journey — next I must visit India!
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Oh I can’t wait to delve into these.
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Thanks for the inspiraton! ❤
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What a journey. Your story telling way is so beautiful. I love that you want to know. And that you went out and traced his steps. It must be healing!
Thank you for your story ❤
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Thank you Sawsan. both for reading and your lovely comment.
It was very healing journey, btw. It gave me great peace. ❤
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Did you ever check with the RM of Mazenod to see what info they had on record for your grandfather. They would have town records for property taxes etc. That would give you an idea of how long your dad was at school there. Did they only have records for 2 years? Where did you grandfather live when he died? Did your dad ever see much of the cousins from Regina? Maybe they have clues about these things or pictures you’ve never seen. Ah you can see how the genealogy research really triggers my passion!
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