This work is copyrighted by my business name, The Harfolk Press. I must ask that you make only one copy for yor personal use. 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.