Big Al

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.

My dad, whom we called Big Al, had an interesting life. He left this plane of existence in December of 2003. Big Al taught us about being a responsible member of society, respect, and about oral histories. We never sat down on Saturday mornings to crack the books, and study about any of these items.

Even so, Saturday mornings were an interesting time in our home. We lived in a 5-and-a-half apartment. Apartments in Montréal are different; they are counted by rooms. A 5-and-a-half can be assumed to have a kitchen and living room, and 3 bedrooms. The half is the bathroom. Apartments outside of Montréal are counted by bedrooms.

But back to Saturdays. We lived on the 3rd floor of a 3-storey walk-up, at Elmhurst & St.-Jacques. Every Saturday, my dad would sweep and mop the stairs in our building. Some of our neighbors’ would look at him funny, but I never noticed. I wasn’t really aware that our neighbors thought this odd. After all, somebody needed to clean the stairway.

When I was old enough to, I would help my Dad; it was a job needed doing, and it was time I was able to spend with him. We did not crack a single book, but years later I would also show my daughters, by example, the right way to treat friends and neighbors. One day, they will probably do the same.

Over the years, Big Al also taught me to respect authority. We were taught, once again by example, that you respected the police. They were after all, responsible for keeping us safe, we did very much “vous” the police. In French, when you use the ‘vous” instead of the “tu”, it is a sign of respect.

On the flip side of that coin, I can remember my father being very upset about the abuses suffered by Jean Drapeau’s opponents during the October crisis. After the imposition of the War Measures Act in 1970, authorities were allowed to arrest and detain people indefinitely without charging them with a crime. A great number of the mayor’s opponents were arrested & detained, but surprisingly never charged.

Drapeau is the same yahoo who outlawed chip wagons in Montréal, because they did not belong in his vision of what Montréal should be. Bastard!!! Maybe I should rename this blog “Tangents”.

This lesson of respecting authority, and the police served me well over the years. As a teenager, there were about a half-dozen times when we would be stumbling home after a party in the wee hours of the morning, and encounter the police. Invariably, my buddies would panic and want to run, but I would calm the situation, answer the police with respect, and be completely honest. I would tell them exactly whose place we had come from, and that we had been drinking beer. Never once were we detained, because the respect we gave was reciprocated.

While we were kids, our Dad would regale us with stories of the Bradleys in Ireland. Big Al loved his Irish-ness. It is rumored that his dad, ol’ Joe Bradley as Big Al would refer to him, thought himself to be a member of the Irish mafia. I think the Irish thugs tolerated him because he would sneak them into old Forum to watch Les Canadiens, or Les Habitants, which is the origin of the label "Habs".

Big Al would also tell us that County Armagh was our ancestral home. We heard about how the Bradleys were the greatest sheep-stealers in the north of Ireland. We found this outrageously funny at each retelling.

Years later, one of my siblings came across a book of name origins at Steinberg’s, and found that the Bradleys from county Armagh were notorious for pilfering sheep. We found this even funnier. Years later, while living in Edmonton, I discovered my doctor was from county Armagh. He remembered the Bradleys, and was able to place them in the sheep rearing area of the county.

When I was in college, I used to pooh-pooh the idea of oral histories, after all History is the written record of what happened, right? With age comes wisdom, I guess. I tell my daughters stories all the time; some are from my Dad some are from me, but all of them are because my story telling talents are learned from my parents.

There is no punch line to this blog, nor is there a life-lesson; just some memories of a good man who will be remembered fondly by his some of his biggest fans. I'm one of them.

If I made you cry, I’m sorry. I did. I miss Big Al.

Call your Dad, or if you’re in my shoes, remember him fondly.

Sláinte Mhath!