Thursday, October 04, 2001  

Eulogy for my father:
James Franklin Hickox
by Stuart Hickox
Belvedere Funeral Home
October 2, 2001 – Charlottetown, PEI

You know, I was handling this well until I heard my mother’s voice during that last hymn. Thank you, Mom. That was beautiful!

“Hi. I’m Stuart, Frank’s first son from his first marriage”. I think I said that 5000 times during the wake last night – what an incredible turnout! – but I wanted to say it one last time.

I just can’t believe Dad is gone. And I have really struggled with how to capture his life in a few words, in just a few minutes. One thing has kept coming to mind when I have been thinking about my relationship with Dad. It’s a photo of the two of us that I have framed in my cabin in Hartsville. The photo was taken by a good friend of mine in 1995, the year we built Walden Cabin. I’d say now that that photo is “the” photo of me and my father.

The day the photo was taken, the cabin was far from finished. We are inside – you can see the studded walls and the frame of the door. We’re sitting on the floor. In fact, Dad’s leg goes through a hole to the ground below. There are a couple of beer bottles in the photo behind us. This really bothered Dad. The first few times he saw it hanging in the cabin he’d say, “Friggit all, why do you have that thing there!” It’s as if he wanted me to take it down and add a caption below the photo that read: Frank says: “Those aren’t mine!”

What I love about this photo is how happy we look together – and we were! Most of you know that Dad and I didn’t always have a good relationship. In fact, it was quite rocky by times. Sure, there were some good early childhood memories, but then there was a big tear in our relationship, and a lot of pain that lingers to this day. It’s the kind of thing that you can forgive, but never really forget – or maybe never even should forget.

That day, there in the cabin, we both have a look of surprise and joy on our faces, like we had accidentally bumped into each other somewhere after many many years. There’s a look of reunion.

You know, when I told Dad I wanted his help to build the cabin in Hartsville, he thought I was nuts. You can just hear him, can’t you? “Drawers! Why would you build something like that on a cotton-pickin’ clearcut, 1000 miles from where you live?” It didn’t take us long, however, to realize that we were building more than a cabin in Hartsville. We never did acknowledge this to each other, but I know we both understood that we had found a time and a place where we could get to know each other again, to rebuild a relationship that was lost in the mess of a nasty divorce. That’s why I love that photo.

With the cabin as our common project, I was able to learn more about my father. Dad was not the kind of man who could say “I love you” openly, or even express his feelings. This did not make him a cold or bad person – just a lot like other men of his generation. He expressed his love in other ways.

As I got to know Dad again, I realized he had a great capacity for love. Dad dearly loved his family: his mother, brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts and those strange cousins from the ‘States that he encouraged to meet us all. And Dad especially loved Joan and Amanda – his family – and let’s not forget the ever-present and pugnacious Abby-Doo! Sometimes I think he loved that dog more than everyone else put together.

Dad was empathetic and kind, and loved a good joke. He had a lot of joy in his life. Some people who don’t know him may say he was a crusty old codger, but those people don’t know about the african violet that he nurtured for years in the window of his basement workshop. That plant was always in bloom!

I never saw my Dad cry until he stood holding Joan’s hand by my son’s incubator in hospital in Toronto. That day was what I expected would be the beginning of a beautiful new chapter in our relationship. What hurts my heart most today is that I know Dad would have been a wonderful grandfather. He should have had that chance.

But Dad didn’t just love his family. He loved Bluegrass music, and especially his band buddies: Murray, George, Roger. Now, personally – and I know I share this view with others, but you shall remain nameless – the thought of a big treeless field full of dozens of RVs, and 72 hours of non-stop Bluegrass, is not my cup of tea. But for Dad, that was Heaven!

This passion for music was closely linked to Dad’s other interest: the community. Dad loved to chat, about just about anything! I was amazed last evening by the number of people who shook my hand and said “your father was a good fella”. Many of these people didn’t even know his name until he died. Dad was just the friendly guy who delivered the tractor, or the man quick to help with the wiring project, or at church camp, or who played the mandolin at the retirement home. I had no idea how many people – young and old – my father’s life touched. Discovering this fills me with enormous pride for him.

I can’t believe he is gone. Gone! I am going to miss him so much! Yet I know I will be comforted by constant reminders of his life: Every time I hear a snowmobile, or smell that sweet oil/gas mix exhaust; or when I feel the familiar anticipation in my heart when I hear truck air brakes through the trees in Hartsville – or when I smell fresh-cut pine, or a wood fire. My head will instinctively turn at night when I see a couple of men standing in the glow of headlights between their trucks – both engines running! – just chatting with each other. And of course, when I hear a mandolin.

It’s really unfair that Dad’s life is over, yet he dealt with his disease with courage and a profound faith. Dad was first diagnosed with cancer in June. Suzy, Jasper and I were fortunate to have been in PEI on holiday at the time, so we spent some good time with him. One day I was backing out of his driveway, as I had a thousand times before. This time, however, he came running out to the car with a lilac branch in bloom. He reached into the car and set the branch on the dashboard and said, “Here’s something for the drive. Enjoy it. They don’t last.”

My father’s life was short, but it was full. He loved as much as he possibly could, the best ways he knew how. What a great lesson for us all! When I look at that picture in Hartsville, that’s what I will remember.

posted by Stuart Hickox | 8:26 PM

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