Father’s Day is Sunday, June 18th, 2023. Whether or not you still have a living father to whom to accredit your habits, good and bad, appearance and traits of personality, more likely than not some of the recognition – perhaps at times even more than we care to acknowledge – evolves from the paternal influence. Curiously much of the parental mastery goes predominantly unnoticed for much of the child’s existence at least until late in life. But eventually we all awaken to the indisputable defining characteristics, some of which may broaden further than we would prefer to have imagined. It is indeed true that “what is bred in the bone will out in the flesh”.
It was infrequent that my nature was familiarized with that of my father. Foremost among the inhibitions was that my father and I had but a narrow history of consortia. We were seldom together. His professional callings to Léopoldville in the Belgian Congo (where, separated from family for almost 2 years, he commanded Canadian Forces for the United Nations) and subsequent diplomatic missions to Helsinki, Finland and Stockholm, Sweden (during which I attended boarding school in Canada) ensured that our connections were remote and infrequent.
The Léopoldville riots were an outbreak of civil disorder in Léopoldville (modern-day Kinshasa) in the Belgian Congo which took place in January 1959 and which were an important moment for the Congolese independence movement. The rioting occurred when members of the Alliance des Bakongo (ABAKO) political party were not allowed to assemble for a protest and colonial authorities reacted harshly. The exact death toll is not known, but at least 49 people were killed and total casualties may have been as high as 500. Following these riots, a round table conference was organized in Brussels to negotiate the terms of Congo’s independence, The Congo received its independence on 30 June 1960, becoming the Republic of the Congo.
For a chap such as my late father (who was seldom given to social intrigue) there was little time I recall having dwindled upon commonality or conciliation. And yet I readily admit the unwitting mechanism of my father within me. It is neither a great nor a small compliment; it is simply an irrepressible act of Nature, a commodity which in this instance is perhaps of some consequence of breeding.
By contrast my father and I seldom had any noticeable traits – unless the lack of similarities were a source of commonality. I have never liked fly fishing. I only belong to golf clubs for the social advantages. Hunting is right out! And clarinets (my instrument of choice is a salon grand). The closest my father and I came to apparent proximity was through the North American passenger automobile, beginning with the Packard and ending with the Lincoln. In between was everything from the Ford Mustang GTO convertible to the Cadillac sedans and Buick Wildcat.
This I know hardly sounds worthy of anything approaching filial affection but if I am to speak openly, this casual admission is at least a genuine parallel of interest. Though I won’t say I would have gone so far as the Grand Prix Francorchamps raceway:
Francorchamps is a village of Wallonia and a district of the municipality of Stavelot, located in the province of Liège, Belgium. It is home to the motor-racing Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps. A ski resort, the Mont des Brumes, is located nearby.
So, Gentlemen, it is now up to each of us as the remaining living branches of life’s fortuity and fertility to extend our influence abroad. If you are so lucky as to have a daughter or a son then I applaud you and remind you what an inexpressible gift they are, howsoever created and from whatever wellspring they may have appeared.