Photographs in black and white tell a story. A young man, jet-black hair sweeping across his forehead. The young man is my father, born to Edward and Catherine Farley.
There’s something in this photo that suggests to me that my father yearned for adventure, to live a life as a bohemian, an artist, a writer. There’s that dashing look about him, as though he were Hemingway or Kerouac. Is my father, this man so young and vibrant, so full of life, looking ahead to a future full of possibilities? Yes, in this photo, I believe he is.
My father told me he knew very little about his parents; how they met or who their ancestors were. He spent a fair amount of time and money searching for his roots in Ireland during his retirement, and yet I don’t think he ever really pinned down where his grandparents were from.
Do we ever really know our parents? They become our caregivers and they offer us love and support, but do we ever truly know them as people? Like my father, I didn’t know a whole lot about my parents. Mom and Dad shared some stories of their youth, but who they really were and how they lived through some of the tragedies they endured, those kinds of things were well-kept secrets. My father lived through the era of depression and poverty and the Second World War. All of these things made him the man I knew.
My father grew up in North Toronto in what he used to describe as the end of the world. There was never any money. My grandfather was a presser in a women’s garment factory and my grandmother stayed at home and ran the household. My father left school at sixteen and started working to help support the family. I recall him telling me about his shoes. He said he never had a good pair that fit, and after long days at work he’d come home and his feet would be blistered and bleeding. He always remained a frugal spender, but because of that, the one thing he never scrimped on was shoes. He owned some of the top-notch brands of shoes and boots!
The story of my Dad’s shoes tells me just how desperate his world was, and I recall him telling it more than once. For me, it really tells the story of his life. The photo of that young man is stunning to me because when I think of my father I think of grey hair, suits and ties and good shoes. Did I ever think, as a child, that perhaps my father had dreams of his own? No, I only knew I admired him for the life he made for us, the fact we always had new shoes and that our feet were never blistered and raw.
Photo Credits
Photo courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved
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