The Browns of NYC: January 2015

Bill Brown with his grandson,
Hugo, Spring 2009.

My father, William Dixon Brown, who passed away on December 4, 2014. We held a memorial in his honor this past weekend, on January 19, 2015 at the Walton Memorial Church in Bronte. It was an emotional moment for me, as I was reading these words–I bawled through most of it and I am sure I was hard to understand. :)

So I am reposting it here. And, to all of those who have helped my mom get through this loss, you have my thanks for your kindness. ~Evan

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Hello and thanks everyone for coming and honoring my father’s memory. I am speaking today to celebrate and share with you my thoughts on my father’s legacy as a parent. At least from my perspective.

Let me start with firsts.

A first hockey game: the Leafs and BlackHawks in 1972 at the Gardens where I remember seeing Bobby Orr play in his final season.

A first Blue Jays game during their first season in 1977. Against the White Sox (another Chicago team).

A first trip to the Exhibition, where my poor sister started the day slamming her thumb in the car, but it turned out fun once we were past that.

A first concert: not too sure, but it was either the Bee Gees or Kenny Rogers.

I remember him teaching me to play catch, him using his old school leather mitt from when he was growing up, which felt like you were sliding your hand into a marshmallow.

I remember him teaching me how to ride a bike, and again using an item from his own childhood, an old solid iron bike–the thing was a tank, and I rode it for a number of years before I got a new one.

I remember him before my first soccer game when I was 6, kicking a ball with me before my first ever soccer game with King Paving.

I can also remember a few adventures: a long road trip to Saskatchewan, a number of annual trips to Barbados, and then later zipping off with me or meeting me at track and field meets in various locations, near and far.

There is more I can relate, but here’s the thing, I have no huge defining moments to offer. Instead, at my age, at this moment as I look back at my life with dad, I have a more profound understanding then I did when I was living in those moments.

I now understand how challenging it is to balance all the things in life that need your attention; balancing all the things that contain promise, your hopes, aspirations, and the goals you wish to work toward. I understand setting all that aside and making time to build a lasting bridge with your children, because that now has the highest precedent. I know now that it is not easy, it’s an effort that has to be sustained over years, and it takes oodles of patience. And my father definitely had patience.

That said, he only lost his temper with me once. He only raised his hand (or foot in this case) to me once! Once!

I was 15, it was the middle of winter, and we both weren’t feeling well, and we we’re all pent up inside the house with no place to go. And, I guess my room was a mess. And I guess he told me to clean it up. And I guess I told him that cleaning my room was nonsense (only I used an expletive instead of the word “nonsense”), and I turned my back on him while I was talking.

That’s when he kicked me in the ass and said, “clean your damn room!”

I very much deserved that boot to the butt. And yes, I did clean my room right away.

The best analogy I have ever heard about being a parent came from a lecture I attended in 2006, in New York City. A noted child psychologist there was talking about children, growth, school, and parents that were far to wrapped up in managing the lives of their kids.

He compared parenting to coaching (which isn’t far from the truth, really). In watching a Cross Country coach work with two beginning runners, he noticed that the coach kept pace just off the back their shoulder. A few paces back. The psychologist noted that is EXACTLY where you need to be: not too far out front as to be demoralizing, not too far back as to be patronizing. But just behind, where the beginners can hear your breathing and hear your foot-fall. You have to push them, but at the same time, you have to let the runners set the pace. It is, after all, their journey. Their race to run.

Now, as you may know, my father was no runner. But I do think he was the personification of this metaphor. Growing up, I was allowed to travel many paths: a student, an athlete, an artist, a teacher, and now a communications professional, father, and husband. Through all this, My father was right there, just off my shoulder, following whatever route I decided to take, whatever pace I needed to set. Supporting me in setbacks, proud of me in my triumphs, and the milestones I past in my life.

Dad was never one for heart-to-heart talks. But there was one time my father gave me serious advice.

This memory seemed inconsequential at the time, really, not much to speak about, but it is funny how later in life we can find meaning in the connectivity of moments and small spaces of time.

I remember in my mid-twenties, I was attending grad school in Pennsylvania and I was home for the summer. One evening, mom asked me to pick up dad from the train station. She told me that he had spent the day in sales meetings in Toronto, which meant that he more than likely had a few extra scotch-and-sodas.

Sure enough, he was a bit tipsy when he got to the car off of the train. He sat down, said “Hi, Ev! How ya doing?” We chatted for a minute and he was dozing off to sleep before we hit Bronte Road.

But then as we were pulling on to Vance Drive from Milward, he wakes with a start and says to me, out of nowhere, "Ev, if you do anything in this life, make sure you have kids, there is nothing greater in life than being a father."

Well, that raised my eyebrows. “Where did that come from?” I wondered.

But I then smiled and tacitly agreed, got him in the house where he ate a meal, walked the dog, took out the trash, read the paper on the floor in front of the TV, and again, dozed off. Pretty much as always, and I thought nothing of it for the longest time.

Then, one June afternoon a couple of years ago I received a father's day card from my parents. Usually my mom's lines are possessed of sentiment, but in this card, this time, my father wrote the more touching missive.

If you knew my dad, you knew that words of endearment never flowed easily from him. Usually his remarks matched the jocularity of the card. But here was this card and he was serious, poignant, and emotive. It was simple, really, just a couple of lines to let me know that he was so proud of the father I had become. It was a side of him I never really saw, and it meant so very much to me.

And, Dad, you were right. My life is richer for having children in it. Just know that I wasn’t ignoring your advice for 15-odd years, I was just running at my own pace. Thank you for being patient. I want you to know, and all friends and family here to know, that I have always been proud of the dad you were. I have always valued the things you did say - and now, more than ever, about the importance of raising a family, and how much it meant to you.

Dad, I want you to know that I try to raise raise my sons with the same love and patience you showed to me. I am trying to run just of their back shoulder, letting them set the pace, being there for their “firsts” in life, but always there behind them, supporting them when they need me.

It’s hard, Dad. Really hard. But you were an excellent coach. Thank you so much for that. And when your grandsons are ready, when they ask about you, I will recall to them about how precious you were to me in life, and how much family mattered to you, and how you were always just off my back shoulder in life, until I could run well enough on my own

Rest in peace, Dad. I love you, and will always miss you.