The Legend Of Orm Part 5

Epiphany

I open doors for claustrophobia

I wear glasses for myopia

But triskaidekaphobia

Won’t let me be

No More Pencils, No More Books

I quit school twice in 1972. The first time was in February. I was in grade twelve. Champing at the bit to put my plan in motion, I had been thinking it was time to make some money and buy a Hammond Organ. No clunky electric piano for me. I wanted to do this right. After being suitably equipped, I would join a band, go on the road, and confidently charge head-long into super-stardom.

After being offered a job cleaning arenas, I made up my mind.  I went to each of my teachers to let them know it was my last day. Their reactions, for the most part, were something they must learn in teacher’s college….. those world-weary looks that say “Asshole.” One of them actually called me a turd. That really hurt my feelings, but I was on a mission. 

The picture at the right is Kurt Vonnegut’s drawing of an asshole. It has been suggested that this should be my passport photo.

That job I mentioned was from midnight until 8 am, five days a week. Someone was coming to pick me up at 11:30 pm.

I was sitting at the kitchen table with my Father who as yet hadn’t voiced an opinion one way or the other on this big plan. As scheduled, a truck pulled into the driveway, and I got up to grab my coat and go.

“Either you go back to school, or you can find somewhere else to live,” he said calmly but adamantly.

It didn’t take much math to figure out that most of the minimum wage I would be earning at this crappy job would go towards rent. 

Without argument or discussion, I walked out to the guy’s truck and told him I wasn’t going. For about the seventh time that day, I got the “Asshole” look. 

The next morning, I went to the principal at my high school and told him I had made a mistake and wanted back in.

Without judging or scolding me, he said it was fine with him. “But,” he added, “you have to apologize to each teacher and ask to be let back in their class.”

I’m sure the teacher that had called me a turd took credit for the turnaround. Against a plethora of books written by psychologists on how to affect real change in students, she figured one crude remark referring to me as excrement had changed my life. Such arrogance! 

Dad rarely interfered with my plans unless they were dangerous or just plain stupid. In this case, he insisted I get my diploma before I go looking for super-stardom.

If he was astonished that I actually finished the year, he must have just about lost his shit when I enrolled in summer school to pick up a final credit. 

I even returned in September for grade thirteen. 

Wait a minute….. Grade thirteen? From 1921 until 1988, Ontario had an extra year of high school. It was necessary to gain admittance to a university in that province. Still, all you officially needed for your diploma was grade twelve. That kind of confusing bullshit really irritated me.

Also, I always hated the number thirteen. 

On November 18, my nineteenth birthday, I quit again. This time, Dad didn’t object.

It’s all In The Timing

Since October 1, I had been working part-time at a printing company that was a twenty-five minute walk from my house. That was fine with me, it meant I didn’t have to use the fledgling unreliable bus system in our newly incorporated and awkwardly named city of Mississauga. I had no desire to ride the Transit, or Chance-It , as we called it. I applied for a full time job and they had an opening on the midnight shift beginning the second week of January 1973. Bonus! It paid 15 cents more per hour than the day shift.

The name of the printing company was Inland Publishing, This was no small potatoes. It printed a major daily Toronto newspaper and most of the regional weekly papers in the greater Toronto area. My official hours were midnight until 8 am, but at least once a week until noon.

My plan was in motion, but Dad had been out of work for a year. By the time I got an opportunity to get into a band in February 1974, money was getting tight. Joining it required me to quit my job and rehearse without pay for two months. I questioned my timing and even informed the band’s leader that my first commitment was to my family.

Organically Raised

But in the early spring, Dad took a commission job selling expensive home organs at a kiosk in a local mall. In no time, he wondered why he hadn’t done something like it years ago. 

He could demonstrate those keyboards like nobody else. When he spotted someone who looked like they might be interested, he would make the instrument sing, but in a way that made it seem accessible even to a beginner. He was racking up the sales and having a good time doing it. 

When it came time for me to go on the road (for three months…what a way to start), the family was stable. 

Dad was back on top. 

Banished

From June 1974 until November 1980, I was away much more than at home. I returned from one of my long trips to find out I’d been evicted from the room I’d shared with my brother since 1960. Pat was moving to Sudbury, and it was decided that Jane and Mary should have their own rooms. All my stuff was downstairs in the dungeon. No respect! 

I pretended to be indignant. After all, I wasn’t consulted. However, I kind of liked the idea. Other than being damp and musty, three degrees colder than upstairs, spiders and centipedes as roommates, and twelve stairs to climb for a cold beer, it wasn’t so bad. I couldn’t hear any snoring from down there. 

Isn’t Nature Fascinating?

From the mid to late 1970s, a metamorphosis occurred. Like butterflies emerging from their cocoons, my sisters changed from being pesky, giggly little girls into beautiful ladies who were not only articulate, personable and talented, but also a lot of fun.  

I never told them this, but I was very proud of them. So were Dad and Pat.

I had always been protective and that didn’t change just because they were growing up. When I heard comments like “Your sisters are hot,” I’d be Inigo Montoya growling, “Prepare to die!”

Also during the 70s, my brother Pat came into his own. He was getting the attention of the ladies. One woman, the wife of a friend of Dad’s who was a good thirty-five years older than Pat said, (after a few drinks) “Mike, you’re alright but Pat ……”. She finished that statement with a feral growl.

If Yer Singin’ In The Marnin’, You’ll be Cryin’ At Night

Something I haven’t mentioned yet: Dad was a worrier. Typical of Irish Catholics, he thought doom was around every corner. This took on a whole new level of anxiety when Mary and Jane began dating. More than once, when one of their suitors would show up to take them out, he had me go to the driveway and get the license plate number.

Just When You Think You’ve Missed The Boat

Speaking of dating, Dad didn’t have a girlfriend until almost fifteen years after our Mother died. And then….

In 1981, I joined the Gordon Lightfoot band. That first year we were doing a show in Dad’s hometown at Kitchener’s Center In The Square. I offered him a couple of tickets. He called an old friend, Loretta, who still lived in Kitchener, and invited her to the concert. 

That turned into a romance. We all agreed that Lori (as we called her) was a lot of fun and she liked to laugh. She never moved into the house, but for nine years, she was here for most of the parties and special occasions. 

Throwing Caution To The Wind

I took Dad to Gordon Lightfoot’s Christmas party in 1981. He was a hit. Gord and the rest of the band respected him as a pro from the old school. Despite being surrounded by extreme extroverts and wannabe comedians, he was able to hold his own.

Gord made him feel welcome to all of our shows and gatherings

I suppose I should have been a little concerned about the two worlds colliding, particularly since Dad was a bit outspoken, but what the hell….. my Father was living a music career vicariously through me, and not only was I okay with that, I thought it was cool.

Gord wrote a song called Knotty Pine. In it, he likened a beautiful woman to a stately pine tree. After a show at Massey Hall, he asked Dad what he thought of it.

“My dog would love it,” he said.

This was tantamount to saying, “Piss on it.”

If I had told that joke, I would have been in the barrel for weeks.

Gord laughed.

Wonderful Chaos

I apologize for the lack of segues, but I like to relate these stories as they occur to me—stream of consciousness—much like our chaotic conversations at family gatherings.

Let me describe a typical get-together. There are the original four of us plus my girlfriend Jeanette, Mary’s husband Enzo, and a smattering (seldom a full complement) of nieces, nephews, girlfriends, and boyfriends. At first, we’re all together discussing what everyone’s been doing, the weather, politics, and, of course, gossiping about any of the family members who aren’t there. 

At some point, one of the original four of us tells a joke about one of the others, brings up some embarrassing memory, or simply mentions Mum, Dad, our old cat Morris, or Doug the dog, and it starts. Screaming laughter, table pounding and foot stomping ensues, the four of us vying to relate the best (or most incriminating) tale from our past. 

Meanwhile, the nieces, nephews, and inlaws, who think we’re nuts, slip out to another room to watch TV. 

Well, except Jeanette. Not always, but usually, she hangs in. Being a successful novelist with a PhD in English, she’s a keen observer of social dynamics and the human condition…….. Who am I kidding? She’s there because she’s just as much of a goofball as we are. It’s just one of the reasons I’m so enamoured with her. 

Lately, some of the younger ones have stayed and observed. We’ve become a live reality show to them. Maybe one of us will snort when they laugh, stand up with their fly open, drool (that would be me), impulsively give away something awkwardly personal, or spit out a mouthful of wine.

Spreading His Wings

From the mid-to late 1980s, Dad really seemed to be enjoying himself. He took Lori to Montreal for a weekend and to the Cayman Islands for two weeks. He also flew down to New Orleans with the two owners of the keyboard store he was working at. This surprised the hell out of me. He hated flying. He was either stoically facing his fears or the clonazepam was really doing its job.

Club 3089

In 1981, we split the cost of renovating the dungeon. Finally, there was a toilet and a shower down there. The toilet radically lessened the number of times I would have to go up those stairs. Dad had a cable extension installed and got a deal on a TV from someone he knew at the mall. It replaced an old black-and-white clunker that sometimes required a slap and a jiggle to turn it on. Also, you could only get three channels unless someone stood and held one side of the rabbit ears.  

Our aim was to make the downstairs a party place. Two years later, we had a large bar custom-made for us, complete with running water and a beer fridge that hauled ass.

Dad had tried a little experiment on Christmas Day of 1979. After six years of abstaining completely from alcohol, he had two beers. A week later, he tried it again. From then on, Dad was able to drink moderately. It wasn’t an obsession anymore. 

The house had always been a hub of activity: band rehearsals, both mine and Dad’s, impromptu jam sessions, and people stopping by sometimes just to say hello. 

Not just inside the house, either. From mid-May until late September, the backyard was party central. Relatives, friends, and friends of friends of all age groups (not many infants, but it did happen) would sit around outside with the tattered patio umbrella flapping in the wind and the rusted charcoal barbeque belching smoke. 

Doug the dog would guard the perimeter of the yard, and Morris, our beloved semi-feral orange cat with the face of a Lynx, would visit, even occasionally hopping up on a lawn chair to revel in all the oohs and awes thrown his way.

CLUB 3089. No cover charge, bring your own drinks, don’t arrive before 2 pm, and don’t stay past 2 am…. unless you’re sleeping over. 

My Father loved it. There was always an audience for his stories and jokes.

CODA

As the 80s progressed, Dad’s health didn’t improve, but it didn’t get any worse either.

Then, a few weeks before Christmas 1990, there was a bit of a crisis.

Pat was over for a visit, and he and Dad were talking in the kitchen. I was doing something in the basement when Pat came downstairs to tell me something was wrong with Dad. I quickly dropped what I was doing and came up, 

There didn’t seem like there was anything physically wrong with him, but he was speaking gibberish. Because he was known for purposefully mangling languages, I thought at first he was joking. But it didn’t stop. It was spooky. 

We suggested that we go to the emergency room at our local hospital. Even without the proper words Dad made it very clear he wasn’t going. So we called our family doctor at his home. After listening to our description of his symptoms, he told us not to force him. He said to bring him into the office in the morning.

Dad nodded his head in agreement when we told him the plan.

In the morning, we took him to the doctor. 

I’ll shorten the story considerably here.

The doctor said he needed to go to the hospital. We somehow tricked him into going. 

That, as I said earlier, was two weeks before Christmas. After three months, multiple visits to the hospital, and a discomfort level oscillating between almost tolerable and absolute crap, Dad passed away in April at his house surrounded by family. 

What a great man he was in every way. He never shirked his responsibilities. 

His music and humour entertained and lessened the burdens of many people.

I’ve yet to meet anyone wiser. 

He is still deeply missed these thirty-four years later. 

Ormiston James Heffernan

1923 – 1991