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MY SECOND LIFE

Chapter Five

Part Two of Two

COPING WITH RETIREMENT




 In July 1991 Aunt Helen, Uncle Arch's widow died, and in October Aunt
Louise died. Louise had specified in her will that the funeral and
associated arrangements were to be simple. The unctuous, Uriah Heep-like
individual from the funeral home did not seem to know what I meant by
simple. Compounding matters, he thought I needed consolation because of my
tremor and speech. When I told him that it was Parkinson's, not grief, that
was responsible, he said , "Well, sir we all have our minor Calvaries, our
little crosses to bear." Evelyn Waugh was right to satirize the funeral
industry in The Loved One. Recently one of north Toronto's community
newspapers ran a story on a funeral director whose hobby was being a clown.
A perfect example of life imitating art.
 Just how interested, Uncle Harold had been in the box of coins that I left
in Louise's care I was to find out after her death. By then, the coins that
in 1975 filled the largish metal box would now not fill a one pound
chocolate box. Harold's son had hinted at the diminution of the coins when,
after his father died in 1989, he observed that Harold had sold a number of
quite valuable coins over the years.
 Apparently, Harold had been looking at the coins on several evenings with
Louise, and when she was tired and went to bed, Harold would say: "Ouisee,
you just go to bed. I'll put these away." And put them away he did, in his
pocket.
 I had assumed that something along these lines had occurred, but not on
such a grand scale.
 I knew that because of William Boyne's reputation, the provenance of the
coins would add to their value. I wanted to have the remaining collection
valued and went with the small number of the coins - all the gold coins had
vanished - that remained to Christie's, the international auction house,
when their numismatic specialist was in Toronto in 1993. His first reaction
was, "Mr. Harshaw, you are treating those coins very casually. If genuine,
they are worth a good deal of money. They are very rare, and in good
condition."
 He picked up each coin in turn, and when he had examined all nineteen of
the Greek coins, he said, "These are all British Museum study reproductions.
Had they been genuine, this lot would have been worth over $2 million. You
know, the last time we saw the real things was when we auctioned them for a
shady character in San Diego in the late 70s."
 My uncle probably thought he was entitled to the money, as he believed he
had been dealt with unfairly in several family wills. In fact, he had
contested the wills of both his father and his mother on the grounds that
the money left to care for his sister Jane who was schizophrenic and was
institutionalized for much of her life, was excessive.
 How did I feel when I realised the extent of Harold's scam? Violated. A
trust had been abused. How had Harold felt about this? My guess is that the
word "guilt" was not part of his vocabulary. He was just one of those people
who are amoral and ascrupuluous.

My mother was a good friend to us and a loving Granny to our children after
Father died. Her remaining years were fun-filled and she showed her sense of
humour. The last thirty years with Father must have been like being in a
prison without walls. A few years before Father died, Mom had said, "I don't
know what has happened to your father. When we were courting, and in the
early years, he was so much fun and had a good sense of humour." I think
that she had found it easier to accept Father's point of view rather than
provoke an argument which would only be unpleasant.
 Esther was becoming increasingly concerned about Mom's health. One day in
January, 1992 she phoned Mom's doctor to express her concern. This was the
only time either of us had interfered in Mom's business. She was shocked
when the doctor suggested that Mom had a drinking problem, as her hand
trembled. Esther said "Read her chart. You will see that she has
Parkinson's!" Esther was shocked that the doctor was not aware of this. On
that same day, Mom had a heart attack and died while putting on her coat to
go to an appointment with her doctor.
 Despite the fact that both Mom and I had Parkinson's, we never had any
significant conversation about it. And at that time, only a few years ago,
medical science was saying that Parkinson's was not a hereditary condition,
although I had evidence in my own family, since my mother's mother also had
the condition. Recent research is showing that genetics does indeed play a
part in Parkinson's.
  Mom's funeral was a proper one, held in her parish church. I read a lesson
from Revelation.
 At a small reception after the funeral, someone said to me: "how does it
feel to be an orphan?"
  I responded with a defiant "I'm not an orphan. I am the head of a
dynasty." It was not a kind thing to say, but I believe that was a turning
point in my life. I finally was on my own.

Back in 1989, when I took over from Louise my great-great-uncle William
Boyne's literary remains, the books that most intrigued me were his travel
journals. I have not travelled extensively and so his journeys seemed all
the more romantic to me. They cover three distinct trips: France, Italy &
Egypt (1845-46); Spain & Portugal (1847); and South Africa (1852-55). Over a
year I transcribed all the travel journals, some 50,000 words, and did
considerable research on one of Boyne's avocations - the study of Gothic
cathedrals. I wound up writing an editorial introduction to the journals and
a specific introduction to my great unfinished project: recreating the three
weeks Boyne spent with his sister Jane, my great-grandmother, in Rome in
November 1845. In working on this material I was able to get a better grasp
of the man my older relatives had spoken of in such hushed and respectful
terms. He turned out to be a disappointment as a personality, with opinions
that would make him a laughing stock today. He was a self-made man,
reactionary in politics, condescending to servants and contemptuous of all
those whose station in life was below what he perceived his to be.
 The work I did on Boyne and Victorian England was part of my liberation
from the bonds of Parkinson's. It's not that the my symptoms were becoming
any less severe, or that my medications were managing them any better.
Indeed, the physical side of Parkinson's was steadily progressing. But I was
beginning to use my mind as I had never used it before. I devoured books on
history and philosophy in an attempt to understand Boyne and his time. I
began to gain an understanding of myself. Even so, it was an unfocussed
understanding because there was no project which used this insight.
  Then, in May of 1990, I went with Stephen Booth and I went to the Toronto
Diocesan Synod which was held at Trent University, just outside
Peterborough. Synod is, in effect, the legislature of an Anglican diocese,
comprising all the active clergy and lay representatives. I was glad to be
part of this gathering even though many of the sessions were admittedly very
boring. Stephen spent much of the time tying flies. One evening, I when was
ambling back to my room to have a drink with Stephen, I heard Art Brown, a
suffragan bishop, like a voice in the wilderness, crying out, "Does anyone
have some Scotch?" Good soldiers that we were, we answered "yes," and were
invited to bring it along.
 That one word changed my life. In the room with Art were Taylor Price, Doug
Blackwell, all three of them bishops, and a varied assortment of lay and
clerical delegates. These 'evenings of fellowship' as the devotees call
them, lasted well into the small hours of the next day, During the night,
many stories were told, many true, some apocryphal, and some simply because
the teller of the tale thought it was good idea at the time. The best
stories were about Esther's father, my late father-in-law, Archbishop Howard
Clark. There was warmth and affection, love and respect. I had heard, but
not fully realised in what high regard Clark had been held by the clergy and
how much he had been such a positive influence in so many people's lives and
how he was seen a s a role model. At the end of the evening, Art said,
"Bill, you're not doing anything now. Why don't you write Howard's
biography?"
  "You can't be serious, Art!"
 "I'm very serious, Bill. You're qualified to do it, and you're at loose
ends now."
 "Loose ends" was a charitable way of describing my life at that point. I
was killing time and feeling a bit sorry for myself as Parkinson's continued
its conquest of my body. I was beginning to feel that Parkinson's was
running my life instead of my being in charge.
 I needed something to do, a challenging project that would take my mind off
myself and direct it to something worthwhile. The idea of a biography seemed
ideal. Clark was now an icon of the Anglican Church. Four decades after he
left Ottawa, where he had been Dean of the Cathedral, he was still known as
the "great Dean" The years when he had been Primate, that is head, of the
Anglican Church in Canada, had been a watershed for the church, and he an
international reputation as an ecclesiastical diplomat, and he had been
loved wherever he went. He had, moreover, had to deal with challenging
medical problems. He had contracted ankylosing spondylitis in his
mid-thirties. This is an inflammation of the vertebrae which is extremely
painful. It resulted in his having to be immobilised for nine months while
his back and neck fused in 1943-44, when he was forty. As I struggled with
Parkinson's I had become interested in knowing how he had coped with a
chronic degenerative medical condition. Here was my opportunity.
 The only problem was that I had no experience in writing a book, to say
nothing of a biography. I did not let that stop me. Objections were brushed
aside and on I went. Not everyone was impressed with the idea. The cruellest
comment came from one of Esther's cousins. When I told him of my project, he
said: "Oh, I guess they couldn't get anyone else to do it."
 Who would publish my biography? The Anglian Book Centre ("ABC"), which
rather grandly styles itself as "publisher to The Church", seemed the
obvious choice, but their initial reaction was anything but enthusiastic.
 My first meeting with ABC was held at the home of James Mainprize, the
company's editorial director. (The house, by coincidence, had been was owned
in the 1940s by an aunt of my mother's and was the site of my parents'
wedding reception.) Mainprize was cautiously optimistic, but pointed out
that clerical biographies, "even of one as distinguished and well-known as
your father-in-law" would have a pretty small market. What I did not realize
at the time was that Mainprize was the sole professional editor at ABC. His
time was at a premium because he had to attend to ABC's line of spiritual
self-help books, which were their bread and butter, as well as to their
trade books.
 I was contracted to produce a manuscript by September, 1991. The next
problem was how to pay for the research costs. They would be substantial,
principally for travel from one coast of Canada to the other. I applied to
The Canada Council and The Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council
to no avail. I had no Ph.D. and no experience. Then, the Anglican Foundation
of Canada came to the rescue with a $5,000 grant. I realized how fortunate I
was to receive a grant. First-time authors rarely get one.
 My work on the Clark biography involved interviewing a great many people. I
had to face the fact that my Parkinson's symptoms, or the side effects of
the medications, had a disconcerting effect on many of the people I met who
did not know me. It was the same problem I had had at the bank but now more
so since many of my Parkinson's symptoms have progressed. My speech was
becoming more slurred and indistinct, my handwriting was becoming illegible
and dyskinesia was becoming a major problem, taking up a radius of two and a
half feet. It occurred mainly when my medications were "on". Most of the
time, I would not be aware of the dyskinesia. I wondered why people were
giving me such a wide berth on the streets, or indeed, crossed over to the
other side of the street to avoid me. I realise now how frightening I must
have looked to some people with no knowledge of Parkinson's or other chronic
neurological diseases. I would be looked upon as being drunk or on drugs; in
any event, a disconcerting sight.
 It took me some time until to deal with these problems directly. In
retrospect, I don't know why it took me so long to get my act in order.
Mostly it was my own apprehension about people's reaction. My solution
didn't make the problems go away but did allow me to have something like
reasonable encounters with new people. It was a simple matter of saying, "I
have Parkinson's. Please excuse my indistinct speech and unusual body
movements. I am recording this interview because I cannot write legibly."
 I found that people are uneasy with the unknown. When they knew the reason
for my peculiar physical behaviour, the people I interviewed were more than
accepting, they were accommodating.  Nonetheless, many people still did not
know what to make of me. When I sent early drafts of chapters or sections to
experts for comment, they would almost invariably say "very good" or "looks
alright to me." Then, sub rosa they would say to my editor at the Anglican
Book Centre that there were problems with the text. Occasionally, they would
tell Esther on the understanding that she would not tell me. Quite apart
from a lack of intellectual honesty - in fact, downright lying - comments
from an unattributed source are worse than useless. As a result I had great
difficulty getting honest constructive criticism.
  I had thrown myself into the project with single-minded energy - it felt
so wonderful to have something worthwhile to do. I turned in a complete
draft to ABC in April, fully six months ahead of schedule. At no time did I
receive any editorial direction or guidance, either before or after
delivering the manuscript. Mainprize had fallen into the same trap that
others had: he did not know how to deal with me. When I did not hear from
him for two months, I took the unusual step of, in effect, becoming my own
editor. I sent out draft chapters, and in two cases the whole book, to
experts in the fields the chapters dealt with. By November, 1991 I had a
complete new draft of the book ready, and submitted it.
 The Rt. Rev. Barry Valentine, Clark's successor as Bishop of Rupert's Land,
was an excellent interview subject, a stern critic of various drafts and
very concerned as a pastor for my health as I wrote the book and readied it
for its eventual publication. He alone of my "editorial readers" separated
me as biographer from me as a Parkinsonian and tried to deal with the two
aspects separately even while recognizing that the two were parts of the
larger whole that was me. As a result of Barry's efforts, the book was much
better and we have become friends.
 One of the chapters in my original draft had the rather grand, or so I then
thought, title "The Provenance of Contemporary Theology". I sent it to Dr.
Eugene Fairweather, one of the most distinguished of Anglican theologians,
now retired, and followed up with a visit to him at his home in Hortonville,
just outside Wolfeville, Nova Scotia.
  Eugene had begun his career as a theological enfant terrible in the 1940s.
He spent close to half a century based at Trinity College in Toronto as
tutor, professor and later Dean of Divinity, had held a variety of visiting
professorships and published enormously, was a leading figure in the
ecumenical movement and been an observer at the famous Vatican II council of
1965. He was now the grand old man of Anglican theology in Canada.
 Dr. Fairweather greeted me on the lawn of his two hundred year-old frame
house overlooking the mud flats of the Gaspereaux River. He was quick to
point out that "Hortonville is really the original town, so Wolfeville is
its suburb rather than the other way around". I absorbed this statement of
local historic snobbery in the spirit of humorous irony in which it was
delivered. Dr. Fairweather went on to point out that his forebears were
Planter stock, a group of immigrants - today they would be called refugees -
who antedated the Loyalists' arrival on the scene. The latter group, he
said, were arrivistes.
  His appearance was quite unlike what I had expected of the doyen of
Anglican theology. He looked almost every bit the farmer he was not. His
shoes, shirt and trousers were totally suited to the rural ambience of
Hortonville. What gave him away was the silver grey hair that cascaded over
his shoulders and the stylish blue rimmed eyeglasses. No farmer would be
caught alive in that peculiar mixture of styles that suggested a character
in a novel. In fact, Fairweather is widely thought to be the basis of the
Rev. Simon Darcourt in The Rebel Angels, the first novel in Robertson
Davies' Cornish trilogy.
 Going into his house through the kitchen, he pointed out the three honours
that meant most to him. They hung over the kitchen sink and were: an
honourary doctorate from the Jesuit Regis College and two letters, one from
Pope John XXIII and the other from Archbishop Runcie, then Archbishop of
Canterbury, commending him for his work on Anglican-Roman dialogue.
 Making our way through books - it seemed that there were so many that the
house would collapse without them - we then went into a large glassed-in
sun-porch on the second floor. There he had no difficulty persuading me not
only that the title of my chapter, "The Provenance of Contemporary Theology"
was incredibly pompous, it was also misleading, and anyway, such a chapter
had no business in a popular biography. So out it came. In addition, he
spent seven hours pointing out, in the most gracious way possible, errors,
both subtle and egregious of fact and interpretation, in the draft of the
Clark biography I had sent him. It was an experience to treasure, for
Fairweather had a truly encyclopedic knowledge of the subject.
 Other readers were similarly generous of their time. Yet no a word came
from the Anglican Book Centre until a letter which I opened on my return to
Toronto from my mother's funeral. It informed me that the ABC was
unilaterally cancelling the contract with me because of the small market for
episcopal biographies and the substantial amount of editorial work that my
book required. I was shattered. I considered legal action, but then realized
that ABC had used the publisher's standard "out" clause in the contract.
 Looking back, I now realize that I should have seen it coming. I also
realize that the reason the experience was so depressing was that, despite
the co-operation I had from Eugene Fairweather and others, I felt alone and
without any support for the project itself. Here I was, writing away on a
vastly complex intellectual project completely on my own, with no assistance
from my publisher who had now rejected me.
 I considered giving up the idea of finishing the biography and in fact put
it aside for several months. I was feeling pretty low but I slowly realised
that, after 117 interviews and much thought, I had found out one of the keys
to Clark's success in dealing with his chronic medical condition: set your
goals and objectives without regard for your condition and God will let you
know if they are realistic. It is a simple faith, but it is not simplistic.
Clark had reduced the essentials of his faith to an absolute minimum.
Similarly, his goals were not complex. In effect he asked himself how his
physical constraint might be an advantage. How did he put that to use? By
deciding to spend more time with his children and to strengthen himself
intellectually by reading widely in theology and philosophy. He was
successful in each of these.
 Applying the same principles to myself, my goals became: to get the book
published and to find ways that my physical constraints were an advantage. I
had already found one way: using my "off" time, when my medication was
ineffective and I was more or less unable to move, to read and think.
 First I put the book away for five months in order to gain perspective.
Then I asked Archbishop Ted Scott, who had been Clark's successor as Primate
and was now retired, as my mentor. This was, for me, an rather unlikely
choice, because his political views were at the opposite end of the spectrum
from my strongly conservative ones. Scott is known the world over for his
advocacy on behalf of the disadvantaged and the oppressed. It was a
political and social position that often put him at odds with a good many
influential members of the church.

Over the next twenty-one months, Ted's advice and counsel was invaluable to
me. He would not let me give up, either in fighting Parkinson's or on
finishing the book and getting it published. Ted's comments on my manuscript
gave me a fresh perspective on Archbishop Clark and his contribution to the
life of the church. Ted's support was invaluable to me and to Esther in that
difficult time. He first said that I had a responsibility to my late
father-in-law, to the men and women I had interviewed, the Church and myself
to see it through. As well, it was clear that this would be the only
biography of Clark that would be written. Ted's support and encouragement
gave me the resolve to finish the book. I knew it would not be easy, but now
I was determined to succeed.