The Shovel

 

At 2217 Hampton Avenue, around 1953

Not long ago I wrote about my grandfather, who was a fireman, and about a steel fire department shovel of his that I was given after he died. The photo above was taken outside of my grandfather's Hampton Avenue home, I am on the left, my brother is on the right. Perhaps I was three years old and not necessarily the lovely child I thought I was; around this time I dropped lighted matches in my grandfather's mail box, just behind where I am standing on the front steps to his home. My grandfather was a fireman and what do I do? I set on fire the curtains just above his mail box. Meanwhile, upstairs from my grandfather's flat was the flat of my Uncle John and Auntie Muriel; one day we were visiting them and seeing a large and difficult jig saw puzzle that my aunt had just completed I wondered how strongly it was held together, pulling two sides of the puzzle, the jig saw puzzle fell apart; this is minor compared to the fire incident, but it didn't go over very well. No wonder the young are parents, only the young have patience needed to deal with children. 

My grandfather's shovel

                             

A month ago, when a shovel that had belonged to my grandfather broke, I was shoveling snow on our front walk with it, it led me to remember and write about my grandfather. My grandfather had been captain at Fire Station/Caserne 46 when he retired in the early 1940s and, years later, my mother gave me a shovel that had belonged to him. When the shovel broke I thought I would throw it out. I used to have two of these heavy iron shovels, one had already been lost when our barn burned down around 1985. I wasn't careful with the remaining shovel; I left it outside all year, behind our garden shed, it was only an old shovel; still, it had been special to my mother mainly because they don't make shovels like this anymore, it was a shovel made to last, and it had belonged to her father; "hang on to that shovel" she said. 

But now, when the shovel was broken, I remembered Robert Johnson's Balancing Heaven and Earth (1998), a book I had reviewed, and in which Johnson remembers something he thought was junk and had discarded, it was a clock that had woken him for important events in his life. In the review I wrote,

As one would expect, there are many anecdotes in this memoir, always with the effect of returning us to the importance of the inner world. The resolution of life's contradictions lies in becoming more conscious, and this sometimes requires the ritualization of the mundane; Johnson describes how a broken clock that was unceremoniously discarded was later retrieved from the garbage. Alone, he made a ceremony of burying the clock, a ritual during which he remembered with fondness the many events the lock awoke him for, including leaving for Europe, visiting Dr. Jung at his home, and so on.

Thinking of this I retrieved the two parts of the broken shovel and glued them together, it was as though the shovel had never broken, it had been restored and I had the shovel as a souvenir of my grandfather. It was a memento and mementos are limited in number; sixty years after his death I have been revisited by him and reminded of the importance of one of the few things that I have that belonged to my grandfather. 

I have a few mementos from my mother and I have this old shovel. But what to do with the shovel? Put it on display? Hang it on the wall? Prop it against the wall? Maybe. But this shovel will be a nuisance if I don't do something with it. And when I am gone the shovel will mean nothing to other people, it will just be an old shovel and one that will break again, if used, and then be discarded. I know why things from the past don't last, why they end up discarded even though they have a personal importance; antiques have some monetary value but most mementos have no value except to the person who values them. There is no reason why anyone will keep this old shovel after I am gone.

Being a literary person and a poet, and a teacher, I see the symbolic value of things. It is that a shovel like this was once used to clean up after a fire, or shovel snow, but while a shovel is used to dig in to the ground, to clean up things, it also has an archetypal value, a psychological value; and this is what we do, we who are archivists of memory, we see the symbolic and meaningful aspect of things pertaining to the psyche; it is one of the things that gives depth to life. The broken shovel reminded me of my grandfather and my relationship with him, it reminded me that he is important to me; his story is unique in our family's history. 

As a last resort, maybe I could bury the shovel in my garden, but I am reluctant to do this, for some reason I think it is rather ghoulish; a shovel is not a corpse. It is a shovel that will live on in memory; but always knowing that these mundane things can break, be thrown out, be discarded, and even memories have a certain limited longevity, based on how long we remember. And, one day, everything is forgotten unless it is written down and, even then, everything is temporary. 

My grandfather, John R. Parker

My grandfather, John R. Parker, and his bride, Bertha Chew; photo
taken in Blackburn, Lancashire.

I don't like to admit that I never liked my maternal grandfather but I didn't; maybe I was afraid of him. Where does a child get his likes and dislikes for people? And after all of these years like and dislike don't have much relevance; now I have a new respect my grandfather. My grandfather, John R. Parker, died in 1964 when I was fourteen years old; almost sixty years earlier he and his wife came to Montreal from Blackburn, Lancashire, by way of New York City where he lived for a while in the Bronx with his paternal uncle, William Parker. In New York City my grandfather worked driving a streetcar; one day someone tried to rob him, this would have been around 1910, and my grandfather jumped from his streetcar and chased the man; my grandfather was also a boxer and he easily subdued the thief. One day I was driving my mother to Central Station where she would take a train to Toronto, this was in the early 2000s; at a street corner we were passing she said this was where her father had seen a man robbing a woman and he had chased and caught the man. 

Like many other women my mother loved and admired her father; I mention this because men like my grandfather are becoming rare, the masculine is under attack in North America; men like my grandfather are dinosaurs now. My grandfather could level wooden floors, build a balcony on their home, he could do things that needed doing and he provided for, protected, and looked after his family. When a man followed my mother home, after she married in 1940, she phoned her father and he was at her apartment a few minutes later; when there was a streetcar accident near her home it was her father she called. 

There are other anecdotes about my grandfather. My grandfather was a fireman, first in the early 1920s at the Central Fire Station in Old Montreal, later he was the captain, at Station (Caserne) 46 on Somerled Avenue in Montreal. His brother, Thomas Herbert ("Bert") Parker, was at Station 11 in downtown Montreal; Bert was also a captain. There was a history of feuding in my mother's family; my father's family, the Morrisseys, didn't feud, they all seemed to get along with each other, they were happy Irish-Canadians and stuck together; they loved each other, and we all loved my grandmother who was the center of the family. As for the Parkers, my grandfather didn't talk to his brother Bert for thirty years and he missed his mother's funeral because they were fighting. I have no memory of meeting my Parker grandmother, Bertha Chew Parker, who died in 1957 when I was seven years old, but I have this one anecdote. My grandparents gave my mother $5.00 a month (or was it a week?) to help with expenses after my father died in 1956, $5.00 meant something back then; when she would visit them her mother would say to her father, "Don't forget to give Hilda her money."   

Grave of my great uncle, Thomas Herbert Parker, who died
on 27 December 1965; buried at the Protestant fireman's section at Mount Royal Cemetery.

Victor Parker, the youngest of the four Parker brothers,
and who was mentally handicapped; in Montreal. 

As I said, one of my grandfather's brothers, Thomas "Bert" Parker, became a fire man like my grandfather. And there were two other brothers, one was William and the other was Victor who was the youngest. I think it was William who worked in security at Dorval airport after he retired. Sometimes I would visit my grandfather's home at 2217 Hampton Avenue; one day there was smoke in the flat and soon the fire engines arrived; I heard the captain laughing and commenting that there was no fire, he said my grandfather just wanted his chimney cleaned by them for free. 

One day my grandfather told me that when he was a boy, and still living in Blackburn, he was hungry and killed a chicken and roasted the bird on an open fire in a lane. The Parkers were not wealthy, his father had died when he was a child. I think, for him, marrying a Chew was to marry up as the Chews were a big family and owned property, they were builders and landlords. The Parkers had been publicans--they were publicans at the Yew Tree Inn in Blackburn--and farmers; my grandfather's father could speak, I was told, several languages. 

Another story my grandfather told me was that when he first became a fireman he was told by the captain of the fire station to clean the metal buttons on the harnesses of the horses that pulled the fire engine. He was at Station One, the old Central Fire Station in Old Montreal. When he finished cleaning the buttons the captain told him to do it again, he had missed the buttons on the underside of the harness where they wouldn't be seen, except by the captain; I think my grandfather may have protested but was told to do it right. This seems like a fairly minor anecdote but while many anecdotes seem minor they all help to bring family members to life, and we remember them for these stories. Another anecdote, a minor one, is my grandfather telling me that when you wrapped a parcel in a box to tie the knot on a corner and it would hold better. Any family memory is better than none, even minor ones like this. 

Central Fire Station

At the Central Fire Station, photo taken in the 1930s,
my grandfather is on the far right.

At Station (Caserne) 46, John Parker is the second from the left,
early 1940s. 

Montreal Memorial Park (now owned by Urgel Bourgel), St. Laurent,
Plot A 501, Grave no. 676. Parker. Bertha (Chew) 1884-1958 John Richards (1887-1964)

Walking by Caserne 46 on Somerled Avenue

My grandfather, John R. Parker, was captain at Station/Caserne 46 on Somerled Avenue back in the 1940s; it was country back then, apple orchards and farmers' fields. My grandparents lived at 2217 Hampton Avenue, near the railway tracks, in a duplex they bought after many years of living in apartments, the last one on de la Montagne where my grandfather was also the janitor. Before Caserne 46 he was at the Central Fire Station, the building is now a museum, in Old Montreal. When my mother was a child she used to walk to the Central Fire Station to deliver my grandfather's lunch to him. One of my grandfather's brothers was at Station/Caserne 11 in downtown Montreal so we have two firemen in the family and we're proud of them. Whenever I walk by Caserne 46, or I see the big red fire engines moving through the streets, I think of my grandfather and I think of the brave fire fighters in the Montreal Fire Department (now the Service de sécurité incendie de Montréal). 

Monument to the Protestant firemen in Montreal

Both my grandfather, John Parker, and his brother, Thomas Parker, were firemen in Montreal; they were born in Blackburn, Lancashire, England in the late 1800s and moved to Montreal with two other brothers and my grandfather's wife and his mother. Here are some photographs taken in April 2018 at Mount Royal Cemetery of the Protestant firemen's monument that is surrounded by the graves of some of these firemen, including my great uncle: