It’s NEVER over!
When I was 13 years old, my wonderfully wise grandmother came to live with us.
My parents had turned me and my younger siblings into the pampered offspring of a double-income, upwardly-mobile fifties family 6 years previous to this, and the plans for their proud acquisition of a new and modern split-level home - when I turned thirteen - had had enough gracious foresight to provide an ensuite apartment for my grandmother.
“Gagi”, as I had brokenly mispronounced the word Granny at 18 months, had stuck as her revered sobriquet. And each visit she made to our previous little bungalow, before the big move that summer, had been for me like Alice following the March Hare into Wonderland.
She always had fantastically imaginative stories to tell us kids! And that’s not all - for that magical summer of the move, after she came... her THOUSANDS of books were soon to follow her - in a huge Moving Van.
That same van included furniture, artwork and antiques. Many of those were irreparably damaged in the long haul from central Utah. Strangely, that was inconsequential to the young, spoilt kid I was.
For her BOOKS arrived in mint condition!
That summer I PORED over them gluttonously.
She must have seen the gleam in my eyes, for in her will she bequeathed them all to me. And when my wife and I made the big move to OUR house in 1984, my Dad passed them on to us. And THIS - this was the first old book I unpacked - and then READ voraciously, cover to cover.
For I was now Catholic, and recognized Francis Chisholm’s Dark Night of the Soul as my own!
Yes! And this story of a shiningly idealistic young Scottish priest made a HUGE impression on me. Francis - yeah, right, sounds like Fergus - Chisholm is idealistic, but he has one ACHILLES HEEL: he says whatever’s on his mind, no matter how awful it sounds.
Like I always did - the same thing. Come heck or high water. I could relate, as you’ll soon see...
***
It was a stressful day seven years later.
All Heck arrived on my doorstop. And just like Father Chisholm’s long, forced purgatory in China, it took me down a few pivotal pegs!
QUITE a few. Right down the Rabbit Hole, in fact.
Then, later on, again - when 1991 came, the free world was basking in the reflected Glory of Glasnost.
And I?
I was chomping at the bit with suppressed fury at the clubbish oligarchy of a few clannish old boys that ruled my then-current privileged position.
Because privilege has its hard and fast obligations. And I was a free spirit.
So - VERY unwisely - that day I pulled a Pierre Élliott Trudeau and quite uncouthly told my boss to fuddle duddle, if you remember that historical vignette. Google it if you don’t.
Stark silence greeted me.
Then ALL of hell’s fury broke open.
Within three working days I was dropped from my privileged (and upwardly mobile?) middle management platform, to a kick-butt sweatshop of an office supervising a small but defiantly opinionated cadre of clerks.
I (again, unwisely? Yet still honestly) let it be widely known that I was quite pleased with my challenging new rôle - and would never again demean myself by such a surge toward rapid promotion.
Some would say I was pretty dumb. I simply thought myself honest.
But in coming clean I wiped my star-rated career slate clean, as well. At least I no longer had dirty hands. I had broken free.
And now had to prove myself ALL OVER AGAIN.
Now, did my dear grandmother’s A.J. Cronin novel lead me to THAT?
Well, our Maker works in circuitously serendipitous ways, and I don’t know much about serendipity, but I do know life can be awfully rum, as one of Stephen Dedalus’ buddies said.
And you know what else?
If Father Chisholm could buck ecclesiastical authority and STILL find a home in Glory...
Maybe there was still hope for me! And...
With a few EXTRA points for outraged ingenuousness, perhaps?
Haha. I know, fat chance.
That final, burnt-out year, still a middle manager, I was awarded the Queen’s Golden Jubilee Medal.
But I was FAR from being ALONE in that honour. Many, MANY more were also awarded it in the Jubilee year.
Many, Much More Deserving, Thousands of Canadians -
But at least... I had given it my Best Shot!
I can say that now honestly.
What stuck with me most about that day, and after all these years I remember them, I still feel their effect...
Were the words our tough-as-nails DG, Gord Hunter, said to me at that moment he put the gold medal on my sagging chest:
“That’s Fantastic, Fergus. You’ve earned it - and I REALLY Mean That!”
Like, you know what I mean?
Like a Million Dollars...
And just like Father Chisholm, at the end of this book:
I had won a Pyrrhic Victory.