For My Dear Daddio - Life's Lover

I took this photo of Dad at the celebration of his 85th birthday...

My dad, who died a year ago on this date, was a rare bird. Try as I might to sum him up, he evades the easy category and swims out of every net I fashion to capture him. (he has done it just now - a swimming bird or a flying fish?) In this, my writing blog, I'd like to remember two of his qualities - his inventiveness and his discipline. A painting general, a lover of the works of Robert W Service, Robbie Burns, Shakespeare, Sharon Butala and Walt Kelly (creator of Pogo); a aficionado of national parks, and apple pie - Mo Morrison was known far and wide as an eclectic lover of life - in his words 'a lucky guy'.

His inventiveness was legion. When we were children and under his watch, every task became a game, and  lose its duty flavour becoming something fun. I wish I could say  it was the sheer fun of playing that caused my dad to be the inventive game-playing man he was, but no. In reflection, I believe it was because he had been a leader from a young age - a bomber pilot as he entered the twenties - he simply knew he would be more likely to get folks to work or learn if he added fun to the package. No matter - the lesson was learned, the tasks completed and all with good cheer. Now, less I paint too pretty a picture, I must tell you that he could be a picky bastard by times. To this very day, I cannot pick up a broom but I feel a tremendous wash of resentment surge through me. And so, dear reader, that lesson was 'don't pick up a broom' and I have learned it very well.

When we moved from Oakville to Ottawa in 1967 (being Air Force we moved every couple of years)  he knew it would be more difficult than usual - we three kids were all in high school and weren't so prone to packing up our old kit bags and hitting the road. We had boyfriends and girlfriends and clubs and stuff. Instead of he and my mother choosing a home, he made a game. He sat down with us and made up a tremendous list of what an ideal home would look like, with points for this or that (fireplaces, closeness to schools etc...) and then we all trooped from home to home. He made us part of the process and in those days, that was an unusual parenting technique.

Later on when he retired, his back gave him problems. He had to have surgery and afterward was to begin a habit of exercise which he never abandoned. He rode a stationary bike, which could have been such a tedious thing, but he made a great game of it. He rode around the world, mapping his route and figuring out where he was, using the radio to tell him of the weather in Revelstoke or Kathmandu. I believe he'd circumnavigated the world twice  latitudinal- fashion and once by the poles. I would phone him on a Sunday and ask where he was, "oh, thought I'd take Route 66 this time and I just saw a road runner whiz by!"

When mother died, he gave up drinking, and had some time to kill so he started going back to church, a habit he had fallen out of. He had been painting and decided to marry three of his loves - painting, writing and philosophical research. He would attend a church in the Ottawa Valley area, paint it, and write a short 'review' of his experience. He had a column carried by local newspapers for many years, called 'From the Back Pew' in which there would be a drawing of the church with his observations. He eventually published a collection of these writings and pictures, called A Month of Sundays.

He often told us that he battled insomnia with editing. He would fashion a letter to the editor and make sure it was properly punctuated etc... I have not gained his editing skills and know that he'd be on this piece with his very fine-toothed comb, tskking and sighing.

These are just a few examples of his inventiveness and they are intertwined with his discipline - how to do the right thing. He accomplished much in his time on earth and believed that there was an inherent joy in being a good person - a lucky guy. Both he and we kids were lucky when he found his second partner in life, the wonderful Stella. I think, in his dark moments, he believed that he was undeserving of the love shown to him. Perhaps as the eighth child of a family that struggled in the depression, he simply couldn't believe that there was enough to go around. I would suggest that he made his luck and showed us, his family, that we could make our luck too - with love, discipline and a little inventiveness - the world was ours.

Here is a poem by one of his favourite writers, Robert W. Service:

Heart o' the North

And when I come to the dim trail-end,
             I who have been Life's rover,
This is all I would ask, my friend,
       Over and over and over:

A little space on a stony hill
            With never another near me,
Sky o' the North that's vast and still,
               With a single star to cheer me;

Star that gleams on a moss-grey stone
                Graven by those who love me --

There would I lie alone, alone,
            With a single pine above me;

Pine that the north wind whinneys through --
            Oh, I have been Life's lover!
But there I'd lie and listen to
    Eternity passing over.

My Daddio

Today is the first Father's Day that I have experienced without my dear Daddio. Oh, not that we would be in the same room, house, town, or even province for all of them. No. But that I cannot phone him and tell him what a swell Daddio he was and is - that is new. Over the past several years that I've been blogging I've done a special Daddio Day blog for him. He always read my blogs and these were like love letters that a shy and modest man could receive without too much anxiety. For he wasn't altogether aware that others knew he 'lurked' about. He didn't care to be aware of it.

I see no reason to not continue this practise. For while he will not enjoy the accolades, I will, nonetheless, continue to feel the pleasure of writing about him and you, my dear readers, will get a glimpse of a man who lived an interesting life in interesting times.

My father, christened Lloyd Calvin Morrison, but known to all from the time he entered the Air Force at 18, as 'Mo', was born in Deloraine, Manitoba in 1924. He was the eighth child of Charlie and Vera Morrison and the fourth son. They had a rollicking good home life from all accounts - my Grandpa Charlie was on the road a fair bit - he was a salesman and an auctioneer among other ventures to keep 8 kids fed during the depression. Vera was a rock - the stable force at the center of a very busy life. Dad loved to tell us stories about life in Deloraine, a small prairie town that his own grandfather had helped settle. Dad engaged in all the activities we might imagine - watching the printing press at work, hanging around his best friend's father's pharmacy, tagging along with his older brothers on various adventures.
When war broke out, his first idea was to join the navy - a not uncommon thought of many land bound prairie lads - but it didn't work out so he became a fly boy. He flew Lancaster's during his part of the war - December 8, 1942, was when he joined up. After the war, for a very short time he tried something else but he quickly realized he was a lifer and came on back. He spent many years flying and training others before he decided to try his hand at a new thing 'public relations'. When he retired, a Major General, he led the public relations department of the armed forces for all of Canada.
He met and married my mother in Winnipeg, Manitoba (the big city!) and they had my brother, myself and my sister in pretty short order.
He was a good Dad - caring and present - and he had his own demons, lest you think he was perfect. He, along with a great number of his cohort from the war years, was an alcoholic. I think that he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder but that was something no one knew or talked about back in the day. He never let it interfere with his work and he was never unkind or even embarrassing with it but it was there. With the help of AA and his family, he beat that demon during the last nineteen years of his life and I got to have an even richer relationship with him once he did.

He had a couple of second-chances over his life - one of his best moves was to marry the wonderful Stella, my step-mother. With her he got a spirited and intelligent partner, who brought along as her kit and kaboodle, a wonderful daughter, son-in-law and two grandchildren. Dad's last years were spent hanging out like a stage-door johnny as one or both of the grandkids are heavily involved in music and performance. He loved it.

The last time I spent with him was over his birthday last December. We had a great old time (only one fight!) and he opened up to me about his mortality and the feelings it engendered. To my mind, he left this world richer for his presence.  His attention to duty, to country, to family and to spirit was impeccable.

Dad often remarked that he was the luckiest guy - lucky in both his marriages, in a career that really meant something to him, and lucky with us. Well back at ya, Dad! We were the lucky ones. I am proud to call myself his daughter and honour him on this Daddio Day.

Lloyd C. Morrison (Mo) 1924 - 2011

My Dad died last night after 86 jam-packed years of loving family, doing his duty, and being a swell guy for all who knew him.

I wrote this post a couple years back on his birthday and I thought I'd repost it.

Dad, it is raining but no thunder and lightening. I like thunder and lightening and I like it because of you and this memory:

We are in the station wagon having been bundled out of the tent trailer at sometime in the night. We are camping at Colorado Campground and it is a wild storm - with forks of lightening and booming thunder. You are inciting our curiosity and quelling our fears by telling us how lightening and thunder works. We carefully count out the seconds between the flash and the boom, translating it into distance. It is odd and nice to be in the unmoving car in our pj's in the middle of the night.


Most of the time when I think of you in conjunction with the past it has to do with a trip - I suppose that is because when we were home you were pretty busy doing your job.



When we went on trips we always seemed to stop at this thing I didn't get and still don't - The Continental Divide!

We must have crossed that sucker untold times

with all of us being forced out of the back of the station wagon where we were happily reading Little Lulu comics (or later - Romance comics!) to have a picture taken beside a sign that told of this wonder. But there was nothing to look at but the sign. You'd tell us that if we spilled water it would flow in two directions. Big whup I'd think. So I guess all your efforts to enlighten us didn't work. I'm not sure of Jude and Don though. Maybe they are big Continental Divide enthusiasts!

Dad advice on travel: 'you don't know what might be important later' And 'if you've seen one Grand Canyon you've seen them all!'

Dad advice on doing a job: When the going gets tough the tough get going! Or A job worth doing is a job worth doing well.

Here you are riding with me in the bluffs, Colo. Spgs. I'm on Peg and you're on a mean horse (note ears) whose name I don't remember. You gave me lots of strokes because you told me that I 'sat a horse properly'.

Posture advice to a very tall teen girl: stand tall,sit tall - be proud!

Later on when I was a troubled teen (was I? troubled that is?) you were very kind to me and allowed me to be a unique dingbat. You talked to me in the middle of the night after I and my pals had a big facination with ouiji boards and I was sure there was a ghost in my room. I did too because it knocked over the lampshade remember? Also you put up with me making you put your ear to the window to hear the people trapped in the glass...


You called my (very few) boyfriends 'cowboys' which was just right and you would yell down into the rec room at the appropriate time - 'everyone out of the pool'. But you wouldn't just barge down like some dads might.


here you are hanging with the boys in the lake...



If you'd been away for awhile you'd take me all by myself for a root beer float. And when I passed math at summer school or any of the other stooooopid courses I had to take you'd give me a pound of butter for my use only. Years later when you came to Nova Scotia for my university graduation you brought me another pound of butter. So perfect.

Here you are with your glorious garden! Garden advice: start with a small garden so you don't get overwhelmed and plant the right things with the right things.

I write so you'll be proud of me and I remember this Writing advice: apply my bottom to the seat of the chair.


You have been a creative inspiration to me - you made everything a game whether it was choosing a new house, or making yourself ride your stationary bike by riding around the world several times. You made me realize that it is important to work hard and to make it fun both. I love how you are a writer and a painter and an inventive game player. I get a thrill whenever I get a notice from the gaming commission even when I'm in the red with the gang!


You never told me that I couldn't do anything I put my mind to. You never told me that girls couldn't do this or that. You always let me know that however hairbrained my ideas might be that you'd back me up, take my side or stand ready to pickup the pieces.

You are a great dad and I'm the luckiest kid in the world to have you for my father.

Have a good day and stay away from the continental divide. If you fall down we won't know in which direction you rolled to!

My Dad looks over my shoulder...

When it comes to writing, my Dad looks over my shoulder. He reminds me with just the slightest glance that if I want to be a writer, I must write. He might suggest to me that I am getting a bit lazy when it comes to my language - that it is worth looking up a word or a phrase just to make sure it is the right one.
Oh he isn't here in Prospect Bay, Nova Scotia. He's in London, Ontario where he lives with my darling step-mother, Stella. I am quite sure that he isn't aware that he is in two places at once but the nonetheless, he is.
I don't let him actually edit my writing. He'd be excellent at it but I don't think I'd survive the intensity. He spent too many years being an editor. He's too good and I might feel bad. Once it is all done and dusted I don't mind him having a boo though.
I was thrilled to bits when he and my step-mother came to Nova Scotia and saw my play Fields of Crimson open in Chester. Of course, he was the inspiration for one of the characters - a bomber pilot named Slim.
But what I'm talking about here is the Dad I've incorporated in my mind as part of my writing practice. Both my parents were big readers when I was growing up. The written word was important. Authors were considered to be superior folk. So writing was a worthy career. And even though I've arrived here in my own very circuitous way - I know my Dad is proud that I call myself a writer.

My Dad has done lots of writing in his life. He wrote articles for the various armed forces papers and magazines that came out. He wrote a book on the history of curling once! Whatever happened to that?? Huh, Dad? When he retired from the armed forces he started writing pieces for a local newspaper in Ontario called 'The View from the Back Pew'. Yep, my Dad was, to my knowledge, the only church reviewer in existence. He not only wrote these pieces on what the service was like and the history of the churches but he painted each church. When he had done this for a number of years he decided they would make a lovely book. And they did - he called it 'A Month of Sundays'.
Can you tell that I'm proud of my Dad? I am. He's the swellest guy and I'm glad he's always looking over my shoulder, telling me to apply my bottom to the seat of the chair, to pitter patter fly atter and generally (that's a joke, he retired a General) hectoring me into writing.
Thanks Daddio!