A meeting with a role model.

As I pulled into the parking lot of the St-James Church in Wakeham where I was presenting a little exhibit called Generation Sacrificed, a recounting of the retracing of the steps of the young men from Gaspé who were killed during World War One, he was standing near the entrance, waiting for the doors to be opened.

Although I had not seen him in a number of years, I recognized him immediately. He was now, he would later tell me, 90 years old. He stood arrow straight, with his thick white hair carefully groomed. He was, to use a term from my military years, ''well turned out''. Just as he has always been.

Mr. Harris Mullin is someone I've known pretty much my whole life. I grew up not too far from his place, and he is my grandmother's cousin. Quiet, modest, and unassuming, Mr. Mullin represents, to those of us from younger generations, the ideal of a dignified gentleman.

Mr.. Harris Mullin

 

I knew that Mr. Mullin had been in the Army during World War Two. I also knew that the Mullin family, like many local families, had a rich heritage of military service. Three of Mr. Mullin's brothers, Scott, Kingsley, and Kenneth, had also served during World War Two, seeing combat in the brutal Italian campaign that saw at least 16 Gaspé soldiers lose their lives. 

Mr. Mullin's' cousin, Elmer Mullin died in Hong Kong while a prisoner of the Japanese. Members of the previous generation of Mullins served in the trenches of France and Belgium during World War One.

After we caught up on the goings on of our respective families, Mr. Mullin took a seat in one of the pews near the front of the church and proceeded, in his own quiet and easy manner, to recount his days as a young soldier during World War Two. It was to be one of those conversations that I will remember forever.

He talked about his harrowing crossing of the English Channel, a few days after the D-Day landings, when the craft he was in was targeted by German artillery. He talked about the death and destruction he witnessed as he and the members of his unit pushed through Normandy in the summer of 1944. He talked about the difficulties encountered as the Allied forces fought through Belgium and Holland, before finally arriving in Germany in the spring of 1945. 

Juno Beach, Courseulles-sur.Mer, France.

 

As a member of an infantry brigade, his main responsibility had been to act as a driver in a section responsible for the transportation of prisoners. He was, as he said ''just a kid'', and his peaceful upbringing in York had not, could not, have prepared him for what he witnessed in Europe.

He recalled meeting one of his friends from the Gaspé area while going through a particularly difficult time in Europe. They reminisced about a hot, black fly infested day they had spent a few years previously while working in the woods. ''As miserable as that day had been, when compared to what we were going through in the war, it didn't seem so bad after all.''.

He also talked about going without food for a few days, when, much to his relief, a parcel from his mother arrived. With great anticipation, salivating at the thought of the homemade treats he was certain it contained, he opened it..., to find two pairs of wool socks.

Once the war in Europe finally ended in late spring of 1945, Mr. Mullin was sent back to Canada. Remarkably, he was preparing to head to the Pacific and participate in the fighting there, when, as he was home in York on leave, the American forces dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, effectively ending the Second World War.

Beyond the content of his stories, what impressed me the most about this encounter with Mr. Mullin, was the way in which he recounted his time in the military. There was no bravado, no self-aggrandizement, just a man telling a story about the horrors of war.

American journalist Tom Brokaw, coined the phrase ''The Greatest Generation'' when referring to those who served during World War Two. When thinking back on the sacrifice of men like Mr. Harris Mullin, who put their sense of duty and responsibility to others before their own well-being, it is hard not to agree.

I was what you might call, a ''Daddy's boy''. Growing up, I spent most of my summer days following my Dad, a parks superintendent, driving down dirt roads, rowing boats on lakes, and going down rivers in canoes. Like most good things that happen to you when you are a kid, you sort of take it for granted. You figure that this is the way life is for everybody.

''You must be one of Ian's boys'' (Ian by the way is pronounced Eye-Un, not the typical Eee-Un), was a common comment made by adults who encountered us. When my brother and I were youngsters, we didn't think anything of it, it was sort of a ''you have brown eyes'' descriptor. But as the years went on, we slowly began to view being one of ''Ian's boys'' as a badge of honour. That's because the older we became, the more we became aware just how special a man Dad was.

Left to right - Me, my brother, Dad, Bonaventure Island, Québec

 

Against a backdrop spent largely outdoors, Dad, whether consciously or not, set about teaching us a number of valuable lessons. Simple, yet important things. Things like, the world doesn't revolve around you as an individual, the importance of family unity, and the expectation that as a member of this family you strive to do good.

It was however when salmon fishing, that my Dad was at his most natural and at his happiest. His love for the river started early. Mostly when spending time with his grandfather (whom we called ''Bap'') at his camp on the York River, about 50 kilometers deep into the woods west of the town of Gaspé. He would later go on to become a salmon fishing guide, and quickly acquired a reputation among the clients and his peers as a consummate professional. It was fairly common practice for the guides to take over from the ''sports'' when, late in the day, no salmon had been hooked. It was while doing this that Dad showed what he liked to call ''the difference between fishing and catching fish''.

My brother (sporting a rather fancy hat), Dad, and me.

Our relationship however, like most father and son relationships, was certainly not free of its share of tensions. High atop the list of ways in which I frustrated my Dad were my lack of academic ambition and my seeming inability to sustain any type of long term relationships. ''How can someone supposedly as smart as you get grades like this?'' was a common report card comment. And invariably after meeting a new girlfriend he would take me aside and ask, ''How much energy should I invest in getting to know ... ?''. The one line he delivered that still makes me smile to this day was his ''I'm not buying you anymore engagement presents" classic.


But beyond all of this, it was the way he handled the end of his life that is the reason why I respect my Dad more than anyone I've ever known.  I was with him pretty much through the whole process from his cancer diagnosis, through the radiation and chemotherapy treatments, to the countless surgeries, to his final breath, and I can honestly say that I never heard him complain once. There were no ''woe is me'' moments. Just his usual stoic, quiet, dignity.

In his last night, the staff at the hospital set up a bed for me next to his. I mostly just sat up and watched him as his breaths slowly became more shallow and less frequent. In the moments when his eyes were open, I talked to him about some of our fishing trips. Some of the ones we caught, some of the ones we (mostly I) lost. I talked about the Little Indian Pool on the St-Jean River, a spot that he said he hoped heaven would be like.

And then, with no drama, no fuss, he stopped breathing.

Today would have been my Dad's 80th birthday.