King

 

July 22, 2017

In all of our lives there comes days we don't want to have to face. Days we dread. Today was most definitely one of those days. We laid to rest a Dad, a soldier, a horseman, a farmer, a businessman, and a legend.

 

I have always adhered to a belief that the greatest tribute you can pay to someone is to remember what they taught you. And I mean that sincerely. The problem here is, I can't begin to recall the encyclopedia of useful things that William Lyons MacKenzie King MacKay, or, as everyone knew him, King, taught me in the over 30 years I've had the honour of knowing him.

 

I had just turned 18 years old when I first met King. He careened sideways into my life in the hot summer of 1984; a truly larger than life character of such vibrant vigour I was instantly drawn to him.

 

King loved horses. He practically lived and breathed them. His Belgian draft horses were beautiful; huge, sleek, astoundingly powerful, and wonderfully well mannered from the time and care he spent with them. He took great pride and joy in them, and with good reason.

 

Shortly after the MacKays moved into the farm next to ours, King got a cute little three quarter horse. And he bought a buggy for her. Taking me under his wing practically immediately, he liked to take me for a ride in the buggy in the evening to show off his little horse. His fondness for her was readily apparent. On the little buggy seat, he would luxuriously lean his muscular bulk sideways onto me, completely relaxed and totally at ease, while he squashed my opposite kidney into a prune. Through the drive, he'd regale me with stories of his past, and the colourful characters that had crossed his path.

 

The buggy, however, wasn't in very good shape; its body was falling apart from neglect with the previous owner. King told me he wanted me to build him a new body for the buggy.

 

"King! I can't do that!"

 

"Yes you can."

 

"No I can't.  I don't have the skills or the equipment or the know how to do a job like that!"

 

"Yes you can. I know you can. You tell me the materials you need and I'll pick them up". 

 

Just like that.

 

So there I was, an awkward 18 year old kid, totally unsure of myself in every regard of life, and here was this new neighbour who had laid a huge responsibility on me. Once he put such seemingly unwarranted faith in me, I couldn't let him down. With the gauntlet dropped, the supplies on hand, and nothing to go by but the tattered old buggy body as a pattern, I set about the intimidating task. With only a tape measure, a Skilsaw, a jigsaw, an electric drill, and a sander, I  set about fashioning a new body for it. Against everything I believed, it turned out very well, and much stronger than it ever was. For years afterward, King would proudly show it to anyone who would look. And he always told them I did it for him. All these years later, it is still at the MacKay trout farm, a standing monument to this great man's belief in me. And it was and is the very beginning of my belief in myself. And all because, for some reason, King believed in me.

 

King didn't stop there. Not by a long shot. As time went on, he became a life mentor to me. Even though he had three sons of his own, his broad shoulders had all kinds of room under them for another young lad, struggling to find his way in this big world.  When I had a problem, I could tell King. I could confide in King. And he always had wisdom, understanding, and encouragement for the situation.

 

Once, when things got really bad, and everyone else pulled way from me in fear and self preservation, King was the only one who remained at my side. And I mean at my side. He faced the trouble with me, head on. I was frightened and bewildered at the corruption unfolding all around and against me, but he wasn't. Having none of what was being done to me, King set his jaw, and in his no-nonsense tone and attitude that some of you know, and most definitely wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of, he said, "We'll show them tough..." And he did. He stood with me through it all. Right to the end. He meant every word. King showed me how to be a man. An honourable one.  I learned more from him about courage through all of that terrible time in my life than I can ever say.  If I could ever be a fraction of the mentor to someone as he was to me through that, I would consider my life well lived.

 

King's sons became my brothers. My Scottish brothers. Rodney, Scott, and Mike. We all took great pride in our Scottish heritage together, and do to this day. King formed that bond with us. Together with his horses, we were all the King's horses and all the King's men.

 

His storytelling, his powerful sense of humour, his love for food, his singing and guitar playing, and just plain and simply his overall joy of life were driving forces in a presence that filled every room he walked into.

 

King and Myrna proudly and boldly stood as Godparents for my daughter, Kelsey. They took a great interest in her that was only interrupted by more corruption in government.

 

Like any other, there was always work to do on the Mackay farm. When I was younger, King never hesitated to apply me to a job if I was there. Rodney would work diligently and thoroughly, completing his task to the nearest state of perfection he could attain. Scott would protest all the way, and Mike would tackle it with energy and a goal in mind: "As soon as we get done this, we can go 3 wheeling!" Or snowmobiling, or whatever.

 

When we'd be working at a job, King would bellow, "Roll 'er back, boys, roll 'er back!" That was his term for modern days' Git'r'dun! It likely came from his time in logging, when they'd be moving a big log with canthooks, and they'd yell that as encouragement. It always added a dose of fun and humour to the job, enfused us with energy and enthusiasm, and lightened the load.

 

When I was a little older, one afternoon, King walked into my kitchen. I had a bunch of papers spread around me on the table, and I was troubled. King asked me what was wrong, and I told him, try as I might, I couldn't make the figures come out to me making more than 20 or 25 dollars a year on a cow/calf pair over selling the hay they consumed. I said I had to sell my cows if that was the case. I asked him to look it all over and tell me if he saw something wrong. He did, and sat back up and declared, "You're absolutely right--I'm going to sell my cows too!" And he did.

 

Very shortly after that we were both hay farmers, which wasn't so bad, because besides the simple things of farm life in general, making hay was another bond we shared. We both took the task and challenge of 'no rain hay', and 'saving it well' seriously. When it came to cutting hay, we had two completely different operating styles. I was hard charging; go, go, GO! Jumping out of the paper route car in the morning and into the tractor, for all that Haybine could take and still make a clean cut, that's what I put to it, madder than a wet hen that it couldn't take it faster. King just took his time, throughout a long day, leaning sideways in his seat against the fender in leisure luxury, thoroughly enjoying himself; at peace with the world. And he still always got done on time. Like the tortoise and the hare: slow and steady wins the race. Once the hay was down, he became a little more urgent, and would put Rodney in the seat of my little IH B250 on the hay tedder to cut the drying time. I'd then blast through the field with my vee rake, and we set about to bale, both round balers going in the blazing sun of a summer's hot hay day. A quick supper, a round of oiling, greasing and topping up the twine, and then we'd finish before the sun started to set and the hay got tough. We then sat back for a bit and gleaned great satisfaction from a job well done. Those were our halcyon days on the land, no question about it.

 

In his later years at the farm, one of King's favorite things was to go to a tiny little breakfast place in Renfrew called Esther's. It was just a little hole in the wall on a back street in town, but, boy, did Esther ever put on a great breakfast. 'Fit for a King', you might say. I'd get home from my paper route, and, shortly after, there would be King in my yard, yelling out of his car or truck, "C'mon, Danna, let's get some brekky!" We had such great times on those breakfast runs. King made friends everywhere he went, and soon he was one of the crowd there. He took an interest in everyone he met, and had to be up on all the news of the people he got to know in that little place. One of the few times I wouldn't see a smile on his ruddy face was when someone he knew wasn't well, because he took a concern in everyone. King was as tough as nails, but he had a huge, huge heart.

 

Going to Esther's for breakfast was something he wanted to do, not had to do. That is, because King made the absolute best homefries I have ever tasted in my life on the white and chrome Elmira cookstove in the MacKay summer kitchen. Pancakes, steak: you name it. He was a master at seasoning cast iron cookware, and anything he prepared on that stove was a wonderful savoury delight. The rustic knotty pine chairs and round table in that summer kitchen was a great place to feast on King and Myrna's awesomely wholesome offerings. I was a sturdy, very energetic young farmboy, and I had an appetite to match. When I would chow down with the boys at the MacKay table, King, in his ongoing, never-ending commentary with his ever-loving wife, would yell back into the main kitchen, "Mrrry-NA! I'd rather pay that boy than feed him, Myrna!"

 

While we'd be rapidly and enthusiastically annihilating a spread, King'd also remark, "We don't have any money, but we eat well! Eh, Dan, eh, Dan?" He interchangeably called me, 'Dan', 'Danna', or 'Danny', depending on the situation. The boys added 'Danno' and 'Dannoson' to that. But I answered to anything as long as there was food! What great times! Boy oh boy...

 

We spent a lot of time in that room, especially on cold, blustery winter's nights, watching movies, as the unmatchable heat from that powerhouse cookstove put us into a heavy state of grogginess. King resided over the evening, in his usual place propped up in the corner of the couch, with his hands clasped over his upper abdomen, twiddling his thumbs, and punctuating the events with his "Myrna!" commentary. Getting up to leave the extremely cozy confines of that intimate room and venturing out into a raw cold Queen's Line night was never a task I relished.

 

Whenever we'd go somewhere, I was always the driver. King would have his electric shaver in the glove compartment at the ready, along with his signature Aqua Velva. After a good going over with the shaver, he'd splash on the Aqua Velva. And I mean splash: as he lustily slapped it on, some of it would land on me on the other side of the truck! King did everything bigger than life.

 

One of King's few weaknesses was Tim Horton's coffee, or "Timmies", as he called it. Just like with cutting hay, while on the road, I always wanted to charge straight to the destination, whereas King was more about enjoying the experience, and always had to stop for a Timmies.

 

"There's a Timmies. Stop here and letcher ol' Diddy grab a Timmies". King always referred to himself as "Diddy" or "Daddy" with me, referring to his and our Scottishness, his surrogate role in my life, and my huge and inescapable respect for my elders (which he used to good advantage at times, I must point out).

 

"No, it's only twenty minutes to Perth". 

 

"Aw, don't do that to Diddy..."

 

"You'll be fine for twenty minutes".

 

As I stubbornly and resolutely drove on past his beloved Timmies, King would go full Fred Sandford: he'd fling his arms out wide in the car or truck, throw himself back in the seat, and in a gasp of genuine horror at the situation unfolding before him, exclaim, "You'll kill Daaddy!"

 

What choice did I have at that point? I'd resignedly but obediently hit the brakes and pull a U-ey, and go back to the Timmies location. And he good and well knew I would, too. King would relax as he got his big hand around his hot Timmies, and he'd settle back in the seat. Quite satisfied with himself, he quickly transformed into the very picture of contentment. A happy smile would spread across his face. "There. That wasn't so bad, was it?" Back on the road, I'd testily plant my foot on the gas, trying to make up for the lost time, while my satiated consort sat back and sipped his Timmies in harmoniously peaceful luxury.

 

Looking back now, I was all about the destination, and King was all about the trip. There is a lot to be learned in that for all of us.

 

Never at a loss for stories to tell, much less the words to convey them with, King would make the trip short with his never ending stream of anecdotal entertainment, regularly punctuated with his boisterous, hearty laugh. It never failed to amaze me how much living this man packed into one lifetime. Truly a masterful storyteller, he effortlessly brought many a varied and colourful character to life in his vivid recollections of their exploits and foibles. The more eccentric they were, the more King liked to tell their story. He would tell me of personal and business experiences, with the lesson or lessons he learned from them, and how to apply that information in my life. An astute and seasoned observer of human nature, King conveyed an amazing amount of insight to me. I avoided many a bad situation or outcome with the wisdom he bequeathed me on those journeys.

 

King also did his best to teach me about women, but I still don't understand them!

 

On those road trips together, King used sing to sing a few frames of "Danny Boy" to me because it made me feel awkward and I never liked being the direct focus of attention. He always got a kick out of my reaction. When it was sung in a heartfelt, soaring rendition at his funeral, grief and pain pierced me to my very soul. The sense of loss was overwhelming. It welled up in me in a torrent, and it felt like my heart and my head were going to explode. It was a monumental struggle to maintain my composure. Even though I'm in my 50's now, I wanted to bawl like a baby. Only at my own wonderful Dad's funeral have I ever felt such a sense of loss and grief and pain like that. If only I could hear him sing it just one more time...

 

I am honoured and humbled to have known this great, great man; a personal hero, and to have been part of his world. I feel deeply obligated to acknowledge the boundless love and immense admiration I have for this larger than life role model, and the profound and lasting effect he has had in and on my life.

 

King was one of a kind, and I owe him more than I can ever say. I will never forget him as long as I live.

 

Till we meet again, Diddy, I love you, and rest in peace.