Life with My Dad, Mr. Fred Ellis
This is the speech I would have loved to have given at my Dad’s funeral, but I knew I couldn’t – I would have never finished the first sentence.
The very first thing I can remember in my life is sitting on the bed watching Hockey Night in Canada on a Saturday night with my dad. The game began precisely at 805 PM but the TV broadcast didn’t start until 9, partway through the 2nd period. In later years they bumped it up to start at 830, then, later, right to the beginning at 805. No idea what I was doing out of bed at that hour – I think I was only about 3 or 4 at the time.
Dad had an apple and peeled it, then cut it into wedges for easy eating.
We were crazy about hockey, that’s how I was raised. Dad used to flood the back yard in winter and made a little rink. The rink was over the septic bed so my clothes collected odors when I fell, which was often, but we didn’t care. Dad could really move on skates, he was nimble and had skinny legs (“like a race horse!”).
Of course, our team was the Toronto Maple Leafs and Dad taught me all about the game, explaining strategies and tactics with endless patience. He was always cynical (I get it from him I guess), often not agreeing with referees’ calls and insisting they were conspiring against our beloved Boys in Blue. He was very demanding and hollered into the TV at players who made mistakes, it wasn’t because he was mean, rather because he was a perfectionist in everything he did (got that from him too). He had a funny way of pursing his lips, then shaking his head slightly in exasperation when things went wrong: He would look at me and say “Army” when Captain George Armstrong (#10) screwed something up or “Baun” (#2), or most often “Pronovost” (#3).
When I was a couple of years older we would actually go to Leaf games at Maple Leaf Gardens, which is at 20 Carlton Street West. We would usually go once per year because it was a lot of money, $4.50 each to be exact. I can’t remember how much Reds were (the sections closest to the ice and thus the most expensive), but Greens were $4.50 and Blues were $6.50, with lowly Grays costing $2.50. Also, there were exactly 16,485 seats and exactly 1,648,500 people wanting to go to each game. Big story to get seats. Dad would say you have to have connections to get tickets, which he called “duckets”. I don’t know what kind of slang that is or where he got it from, but that’s what he called them. He’d say “Ernie, I got the duckets for Saturday night; the Black Hawks are coming to town.”
Sometimes he would get them from Suppliers, companies that made parts for gas pumps and other car-related stuff. He was very sociable and, as I said, a perfectionist, well-organized and therefore easy to work with I guess. You could count on him. Dad was a Dispatcher for a long time in Hamilton, but when he moved to Toronto he was responsible for Inventory, so I can see him smoothly coordinating between the Suppliers and Sunoco stations, making sure that parts got where they were needed on time. His handwriting and record-keeping was impeccable.
I also remember Dad telling me that he hated what he did and always had. He’d say “I’ve spent my whole life doing shit jobs. Find something you love and do it. Don’t settle for less.” That really marked me for life, I never forgot it. I have been very fortunate, much more than most.
Anyway, the bulk of the Leaf tickets came from brother-in-law Ron Dafoe, who was a Leaf fanatic and had Seasons Tickets to the Leafs (Wonder of all Wonders). We sat in Section 68, not sure but I think we were in seats 7 and 8, maybe 5 and 6, but not double digits nor seats 1 and 2 either.
Our pre-game ritual was to go to the Swiss Chalet for BBQ chicken and French Fries, but that evolved into Montreal Smoked Meat sandwiches at the Pickle Barrel, which was nowhere near Downtown. It was out on Steeles Ave. north of the 401. Dad was a very plain eater, just a “meat and potatoes” guy and, boy, did he love those cured meats. Corned beef on rye was another favorite.
We would get all snazzed up to go the game: jacket and tie, the whole schmeel. Dad would even shave again in the late afternoon, his skin would be shiny and his cheeks rosy from the extra wear and tear on his skin.
We would arrive at the Gardens very early. Dad hated paying for parking (the very notion has always driven me batty too) so we had a special place to park. We would hurry by the Scalpers who offered to buy our seats for exorbitant prices and hustle inside the arena. Sometimes Dad would test my Maple Leaf loyalty, saying: “They are offering us $25 for the pair, should we take it?” He was unable to conceal his delight when I said “No way!” and would always smack me gently on the side of the head but I never realized he was joking. What a silly question! What would we do with $25 that was better?
The Gardens was huge, I could never get over how big it was. There was a great big clock hanging over center ice with advertising for Dominion Stores on it. Somehow we would manage to get right down by the players benches and watch the pre-game warm-up. I think we were able to do that because it was very early and there weren’t too many fans around. I was very persistent and would get as close to the players as possible and ask them for autographs. Dad would say “Get that one! Ask him! That’s Red Storey, he’s a ref now but he was a great player in his day.” Or: “Go! That’s King Clancy over there!”
The players would zip around the rink getting warmed up. They were so lean, almost gaunt-looking, the biggest one weighing maybe 190 or so (Red Kelly), but their cheeks were rosy. We were in awe.
We hung right in there until we were practically hauled out of the area around the benches. I remember a voice coming through the players and fans milling around saying in a very loud voice: “LADY WITH A BABY IN HER ARMS!! LADY WITH A BABY IN HER ARMS!!” Turned out to be Assistant Trainer Joe Sgro with an armful of hockey sticks, boy did we laugh.
Our most memorable Leaf game was in 1976. The Leafs were playing the Flyers and Darryl Sittler, the Captain (#27) scored 6 goals and 4 assists. We were delirious, couldn’t believe our eyes.
But Dad was crazy about baseball more than any other sport. I still have his #5 jersey from the RCAF. He coached local baseball teams. I can remember him calling a suicide squeeze with the game on the line and pulling it off.
He was also an endless practical joker. He bought a little vial of juice that exuded the stench of the century and would put a few drops behind the couch or in a corner and watch people’s faces. He bought a fake dog turd to watch the effect it had on people.
Dad was born on the kitchen table at 347 Power Street in Winnipeg Manitoba. We went to Winnipeg to visit my Grandmother “Nana” a couple of times when I was a kid. She lived at 926 McDermott; I can still remember her house and aroma of her cooking European dishes. She had the same sense of humor and facial expressions and little head shake that Dad got from her.
The streets all had back lanes behind the houses, which was pretty cool. The cars and garbage and all were out there, so the front yards looked slick.
The trips out to Winnipeg in the car were endless; it took a couple of long days to get there. The first night we would try for what is now called Thunder Bay, which at that time were called Port Arthur and Fort William. We stayed in rustic little motels and illegally made toast and coffee in the morning using the Coleman stove. One time we got accused of cooking in our room by the Manager, why they would care I don’t know, but we were secretive about it.
Once we waded in Lake Superior waaaaay out there and it was only about two feet deep. Another time we went to Bemidji Minnesota to see Paul Bunyan and his Great Blue Ox “Babe”.
We also went to Otter Lake where Uncle Ed and Aunt Lydia had a cottage. I think Ed was a Great Uncle. There were lots of people in the picture: Big Ernie, Little Ernie, my Uncle Ron, cousins, etc., I can’t remember very much about that.
We drove a Zodiac Zephyr and I used to sit behind Dad counting the grey hairs on his neck. Eight, nine, ten, one-teen, two-teen, three-teen, and so on. I must have been only 3 or 4 because I couldn’t even count properly!
One time our fan belt broke somewhere around Thunder Bay. I remember because the Transnational highway in that area is cut right out of the cliffs, extremely rugged and beautiful country. We were certainly toast. Dad was always pretty handy but he was in a terrible state. Then, miracle of all miracles occurred: another guy came along in the same obscure car and HE HAD A SPARE FAN BELT!! It was like something out of a movie. We couldn’t believe our good luck and Dad talked about it forever.
Also, Dad liked Scott Transport; he used them at work for shipments. Anyway, he would have me watch out for their 18-wheelers and I would pump my arm at them to try and get them to pull the air horns and they usually did.
There must have been a lot of Jewish people out there because Dad always talked about them, their habits and quirks. He also used Yiddish expressions quite often and laughed his head off when he did: “Oy Ve!” Some of the expressions are shared in German – e.g. Dad used to use the world “schmaltz” instead of “corny”. Schmaltz is chicken fat that is used for cooking in Germany and Eastern European countries. Schmozzle was a real favorite, as in “We left early but the traffic was bad and it was a real schmozzle getting there”. No idea what schmozzle is, must be Yiddish?
We went to Quebec City one summer to visit my sister who was working as an Au Pair, it was gorgeous. Dad had a laugh trying to communicate with the people in English. He also did a tremendous imitation of a French Canadian speaking English: “He pass de puck to me an I shoot in de net by Gar.” I am also into all those cultural and linguistic things, not to make fun of anyone, just because it is funny. I get it from Dad.
Back in Burlington, Dad would often go in during the nighttime to unload the oil tankers. Sometimes he would take me on a Saturday when he had to work overtime. I met all the guys many times: Bill Cochrane, Bill Brewer, I can’t remember the other’s names.
One time I got up on a tanker and looked down into the big lid where the fuel was. Some fumes must have got to me because I staggered around and fell off the truck. As luck would have it, Mr. Brewer was standing right beside the truck and caught me. Dad made me promise not to tell anyone, especially Mom, and I never did.
Dad always called me lots of different names; Ernie, Herb, and Bill were his favorites. He used to say I was 12 years old before I knew what my real name was.
He’d also make fun of things I did, saying he knew where I got certain characteristics and quirks from (him). He’d say, “Well, at least you get it honestly.”
Dad had an endless arsenal of funny expressions: “I’ve got more of those than Beecham’s got pills”. Everyone’s favorite: “Smiling like a jackass eating thistles”. This one I have always used: “Tell him to go rub salt.”
When my parents separated Dad moved to a room on Lakeshore Road in Oakville. He used to invite me over and make spaghetti, dry spaghetti, no sauce, just meat and noodles. The most boring eater in history, as I said. He would also give me a huge milkshake at the end because he was terrified I would go home hungry.
Dad and Dorothy later got married and moved into 35 Thorncliffe Park Drive. They had to haul Dorothy’s sofa up the outside of the building because it was too long to fit in the elevator. I used to go there for the weekends – it was very exciting because there were 50,000 people living on one huge block that actually used to be a car racing track.
There was a Greek Orthodox Church there that drove Dad crazy because they were forever parading up and down the street late at night. He called them the Honking Greeks and used to throw stuff off the balcony at them along many other neighbors. Boy, did we laugh!
I remember a few stories about those days. Once Dad got a ticket on the Don Valley Parkway and he was furious and asked the cop why he picked him when all the other cars were going the same speed. He said “snot-nosed kid, I’ve been driving since before he was born.” That reminds me: Dad spent endless hours coaching me on how to drive. He’d say “Study the other drivers and look for the ones that will do stupid things. Check out that Pontiac over there. I’ll bet there’s a woman driving it who hasn’t got a goddamned clue what she’s doing.” He’d call them “white knucklers” because they hung on to the wheel for dear life. Everything I know about driving he taught me long before I got behind the wheel.
Dad told me about another time that he and Dorothy got in the elevator with a bunch of stuff. Dorothy was always taking tons of stuff to the cottage. They bumped into a neighbor and the guy asked if they were moving because they had so much stuff and the answer was no. Then the guy asked if they were going on vacation and the answer was no again. Dad said the guy couldn’t believe his eyes when he told him they were just going away for the weekend!
I wasn’t around for this one unfortunately: They got in the elevator and I can still remember how Dad described the incident: “The keys dropped out of my hand and PLUNK, they went right down the elevator shaft!” He made that little head shake, saying of all the places they could land, they went straight down the shaft. I can’t remember how they got them out or if they ever did.
I often called Dad “sir” because I respected him so much. One time during my teen years I must have said something cute because he got really mad, which was very rare. He was ready to blow, no kidding. He said “Listen, I grew up in the Depression and was in the War before you were even thought of. If I ever get started on you (meaning a fight), believe me, you’ll never forget it.” And that moment really hit home, and in spite of all our different views about things I never forgot it and tried extra hard to show my love and respect. I wanted to show that although I value different things I still respect his views and do what he would want me to do if I can.
Dad and Dorothy bought a piece of land in Dorset for $4,500 and started to work their dream. I would take the GO Train and Dad would pick me up and the three of us would take off for the weekends. That was there project and is his legacy. They schemed and drew diagrams endlessly. He would draw stuff and say “This is where that room is going to be.” “Such and such will look good over there.”
Of course it was just brush and took forever to clear everything away. At the beginning there was no road onto the property so everything got hauled up and down the hill. Stage One was the camper and it was roughing it, but it was a lot of fun. Dad built an outhouse which Dorothy kept smelling like the Ritz. We cooked stuff on the Coleman stove and it had that neat outdoor taste that goes with the gas.
Once, Dad and I went up alone to Dorset. We got there in the dark and opened up the camper and squirrels had built a nest inside the sleeping blankets so we chickened out and went back home. Did Dorothy laugh when she saw us!
Another time, we were driving up in the dark and a drunk was in front of us on the winding roads and he wouldn’t let us pass. It was terrifying until Dad deked him out and passed him. We used to buy gas in Unionville for 39.9 cents a gallon on the way.
Stage Two was the boathouse. All this was very, very exciting for me, you can’t imagine. Seeing things develop and workman engaged at different stages made quite an impression on me. Dad found Anson Hammond and he put the foundation for the boathouse into the lake. Chuck Peterson was his sidekick, I remember him eating a whole tomato like it was an apple. Dad said Anson had legs a racehorse, just like his. He also used another great expression: “The water was colder than a well-diggers ass.”
The neighbors were terrific, especially the Williamsons. They always brought stuff over to the camper with words of encouragement and invitations to come inside when it got too cold.
The wildlife was everywhere because the land was so savage. There was the Sherman’s estate and that was about it, then came the Williamson’s cottage next door. Dad had names for the various animals, Otto the Otter was one, there was another for a fox, and another for a beaver. But they left in a hurry when people started building their places. Blinger was his favorite squirrel; he got that name because he was very devious and would always get into the hummingbird feeder.
When Dad was in the war he lived at 60 Cornwall Gardens in London, England. Once I went there and took pictures and he just stared and stared at them, couldn’t get over it. He kept saying “That was 45 years ago” or however many it was at that time.
In the late 90s Dad and Dorothy came to San Francisco. The part I remember best is when we went to Alcatraz and went on the tour: Alvin “Creepy” Karpis, Al Capone, George “Machine Gun” Kelly and so on. Dad had his headphones on and was mesmerized, listening to the history. He said he had heard it all on the radio and couldn’t believe he was seeing the prison.
We also went to San Diego that time and had a ball. He was awed by the beauty of California and kept saying it over and over.
I studied the radio shows in school and we would giggle over them: Fibber McGee and Molly was the one that really got us rolling: Every single show the same thing would happen, but somehow it was hilarious each time. They were talking about an object that they couldn’t find, and Fibber would say he’d look in the closet for it. Every time he opened the closet door a ton of stuff would come falling out and make a deafening noise.
When I was a kid we watched Jackie Gleason Show including the original Honeymooners and all the skits such as Joe the Bartender. Art Carney really broke dad up. The other one we always watched was Red Skelton; he was fantastic and played a variety of characters: Cauliflower McPugg, Clem Kadidlehopper, and Freddie the Freeloader. Red always ended with “Goodnight and God bless”.
After I went to Europe, I visited every year for many years except for the first couple. Dad was a real homebody and could never understand why I wanted to travel all over the place. He would always ask me “When are you coming home?” But I think he knew I never would because sometimes he would say “After you’re gone for a long time, you can’t come back, I know that because I could never go back to Winnipeg.”
We would always go up to the Cottage if we could get through the snow. It was Dad’s palace and he enjoyed everything, even just sitting around listening to music. Dad and Dorothy have always been so very much in love, so it was a pleasure to see them so happy. As time went on, Dad would say more and more often “Get the best (woman)”. He always believed, as do I, that he had the best and it was a big deal for him that his kids would be happy with their lives.
More than anything, those three things have really stuck with me: First, to find something that I love and do it, that one has always been on my mind. Second (related to that time I was cheeky) was to respect him and show it, and I did. Third is that line “Get the best”.
