Bringing Home the Duncan Phyfe: Chapter 13

Secrets

It was late August, and by then the picnic lunches and Dad's swim to Canada had become a weekly routine. Each time, Dad offered to park his Bell truck downstream before they went to Pine Grove for lunch so Mom didn't have to wait, and each time Mom declined.

"It's bad enough you're swimming to Canada,” she complained, “I wouldn't think of going back to work wonderin' all afternoon if you made it back."

"Made it back? I'm making it back faster every week—I’ve shaved ten minutes off my time since last month."

"Yes, Don. You're a good swimmer," she paused. "Speaking of good little swimmers..." but Dad interrupted.

"Tell you what, Bev, if I cut off another two minutes today, next week we'll just eat and relax. ”

“Don, you talk as if someone is really keeping track of all this."

"I am keeping track of it."

"Well, whether or not you break your record, I do wish you'd quit. Honestly, I don’t know why you do it.”

“I guess it's because... I can; I like it; and it's free. There aren't many things in life we can say that about.” he smiled.

This much was true. In fact, in those early years, that trifecta [I can; I like it; and it's free] was the credo of Dad's recreational budget (not to mention a possible explanation for the Baby Boom itself).

What Dad didn't say, however, was that competing against himself helped suppress an impulse he disliked. It peaked when he boxed in the Golden Gloves. He had competed in football and track in high school, but boxing was different. He felt bad that it felt good to hit and hurt. A body shot to the ribs, a left to the eye, an uppercut to the chin, roundhouse that buckled his opponent’s knees.

Delivering such blows felt great from an arm's length, but he felt like a hypocrite every time he shook hands with a fella he had just clobbered senseless. He wondered sometimes which was more real: the smile he flashed when he said, “Nice match,” or the brutal glare that was in his eyes just moments before. He only knew from the cheer of the crowd that there was something both appealing and appalling about the brawl and the blood and the hand held high. Though it was his hand, he was secretly ashamed that his desire to win, to beat the other guy, felt momentarily like hatred.

He didn't like that feeling, and began avoiding any competitive situation that brought it on, but sometimes they found him anyway. Like the time he and Mom had some of “the boys” and their wives over for a nice quiet evening. One of the guys was a show off who claimed his vice grip could make a grown man cry. As they were saying goodbye for the evening, Dad mistakenly shook the big guy’s hand, and the two were instantly locked in an "Indian" arm wrestle right there in the entry way.

Above the straining groans, the two wives begged their husbands to stop, but Dad’s instincts were kicking in, and he set up an old trick that had worked so often on his older brother. He let the bigger guy bear down on him, then changed his own resistance to a yank, which pulled his friend flat-forward to the floor and face first into the wall—he literally broke through the plaster and came to rest with his head halfway in the hole. Jaws dropped in stone silence until the lummox staggered up, shook the plaster from his hair, and began laughing to save face (which was fortunately still in place). Every0ne started laughing but Mom. [Whenever Mom told the story to us kids, however, she could not hide a smile.]

It was boxing and experiences like putting his friend’s head through a wall, that made Dad want to redirect his competitive drive. Instead of “beating the other guy,” he chose to become the other guy by setting random goals for himself, like swimming to Canada and back over the noon hour. He would sometimes do things just to prove they could be done, and then having done them, he'd set out to do them better or faster. None of this, he knew, would make sense if he said it aloud, so he simply stared out at the river.

"I feel bad eating in front of you." Mom said.

"I'll eat my sandwiches when I get back. Here take my watch and don't forget to time me. I'm just waiting for the wake from that last ship to settle down a little. It's all clear after that," Dad said, and then he began the silly song he always sang when he took off his shoes and shirt before swimming:

......................... I'll try to help you with the melody
“One day I went in swimmin’ ... G.G.G.Gb.G.A.G.
where there were no women ... E.E.Eb.E.F.E.
down by the sea. ........... D.Db.D.A
Seeing no one there.......... Ab. A.B.A.F
I hung my underwear ........ F.E.F.A.G.E
upon a willow tree. .......... D,Db.D.A.Ab.G
I dove into the water .......... G.G.G.Gb.G.A.G.
just like Pharaoh’s daughter ..... E.E.Eb.E.F.E.
dove into the Nile, ............ D.D.Db.D.A
but someone saw me there..... A.Ab.A.B.A.F
and stole my underwear....... F.E.F.A.G.E
and left me with a smile.” ...... E.D.A.B.D.C

....................(That last "B" is the only note below the song's octave.)

.

"You think you're so funny," Mom said with a bite of her sandwich.

Dad kissed a bit of egg salad from her lip and stood up in his trunks to pull off his T-shirt. “Don't let anyone steal my clothes.”

He trotted down the grassy slope and upstream toward the bridge, then dove into the water, coming up twenty feet out, with the current carrying him downstream as he swam. His smooth, steady strokes and turning head moved with precision and a hint of pride, taking him further and further away until he was half-hidden beyond the swells and waves.

.

In a few minutes Mom would drive the Ford downstream and watch for his return, but for a little while she propped her arms behind and looked up through the dappled shade and speckles of sun.

[The name Pine Grove Park belies the fact that it is full not of pines but some of the largest oaks in Port Huron.]

.

Mom could hear the voices of children not far way on the swings, and the shrill to-and-fro squeaking of the chains matched the rhythm to her breath and calmed her anxious heart. Above the drone, the children’s teasing turned to song:

.
“John and Jenny sittin’ in a tree
K-I-S-S-I-N-G,
first comes love,
then comes marriage,
then comes Jenny with a baby carriage!”

.
She had heard the childish chant a hundred times before, but never had it struck her as a simple statement of the time-honored expectations of life. For just a moment more, she fully reclined against the cool blanket, gently pressed her hand against her stomach, and smiled up at the sun through the trees.

.

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[For those readers who like to see the real thing, through the magic of Google Maps, I can show you how this setting looks more than 50 years later.Here is Pine Grove Park. Dad actually walked further upstream near the Blue Water Bridge to dive in. This gave him enough distance in the St. Clair River to cross over and reach the narrow peninsula west of Exmouth Street in Sarnia, Ontario.He'd catch his breath there, then swim back and get out between Beers and Bard Street at the path just south of the trees at the end of the gravel road. I know this gravel road because it’s the same place my brothers and I exited the river many years later. If you miss that point, you end up in the downtown riverfront north of the Black River where onlookers think you're crazy for swimming in that swift, cold water. I confess that it's been several years since I have.]