I have spent the past week thinking about our mortality, but more importantly is the life lived before, though we must confront this inevitability.My father, Martin Kernahan, passed away last week Sunday in his sleep at home. There is no psychological preparation for this. The fact that he died peacefully in his sleep is the only cold comfort.The vacuum left is ever present and profoundly imposing, you find yourself drifting at frequent intervals during the day, indulging in memories of the one who has passed.
In the last conversation I had with my father he asked me if I had noticed any blossoming poui trees on the hills. Anyone who has dealt with the elderly can probably appreciate that this was the 10th occasion in a relatively short space of time that I had been asked that question. Typically, I would shrug it off as the preoccupation of a mind with a finite number of things to engage its attention.From the day that my father died to this very day, all I can see is the three distinctive yellow patches of the poui that have changed the entire face of the mountain. On the highway, they call out for attention, laying a petaled carpet at their feet. Could it be that that I was not seeing this before? Or have I been blinded to such things by the minutiae of modern-day living.
It got me to thinking about how my father's way of life influenced my world view. I should get this out of the way, though, we did not always get along. He was a strict disciplinarian; his dogmatic approach to my school career had the unintended effect of putting me off academics entirely. It is a good thing that there are no trophies or certificates doled out for just scraping by because that would easily qualify me as an 'at risk' hoarder.As an adolescent I always felt under the thumb of a merciless oppressor, if I was not bent over books, I was bent over chores. The more I think about it, the more it rankles to consider that I washed that man's car for ten thousand Sundays and was never allowed to drive it.It might seem perverse, but you could probably understand why I chuckled inside like a witch over a bubbling cauldron when the car was eventually stolen.
I can also never forget my father's dog-breeder phase. He decided to breed and sell German Shepherd pups, the problem is I had to do most of the work. Let me tell you, shovelling up eight loads of poop every day imposes the kind of humiliation that is built to last.For all of these things, however, I must concede that my father was precisely that, a father. He was always involved in the lives of his children and while we were aware of where he worked, he was defined entirely by his interests outside of the job.He grew up in Manzanilla and we were always in de country visiting some family friend or distant relative. I could never really be sure because I was always wandering along dirt country roads after a heavy downpour looking for manicou crabs while the others were back at the house.
If there were no crabs available for harassment, I would be shinnying up a cashew tree to eat the fruit. The taste and the texture I will never forget. Also quite memorable are the stomach knots that I would have to endure if I chose an immature fruit.The consequence of this poor judgment was usually dire, because the only thing worse than having to use a country outhouse, is using an outhouse that has a massive 'jep' nest under the wooden seat. It was because of my father and his attachment to Manzan that I know about walking through a country stream shaded by cocoa trees, sucking the pulp off the seeds plucked from a cracked pod.
Country folk did not typically have a lot to offer in the way of food, but then everything around could be eaten. There was shaddock, mammi apple, soursop, chennet (or ginnip), paw paw, fat pork (the jury is still out on that one)...you name it. I suppose the closest thing that kids are exposed to today in the way of fruit is gummi bears.All of these adventures gave me my sense of wonder and heavily influenced the kind of work that I do today. There are always the things that we take for granted at stages of our lives.
Looking back on our school vacations it was remarkable to consider that my parents would always take us to Barbados or Grenada. In particular, I recall trips that we would make to Martinique. I remember being amazed to hear how fluently my father spoke French, I was never aware that he had learnt it or that he had practiced it enough to hold lengthy conversations.
In the home he also shared some of the responsibility of cooking, though I cannot bring myself to lie here. Saturday was sancoche day so that would usually mean that I would go hungry because I hated it. I hate it now.As I reflect on my father's life, I realise that what we now consider to be a full and meaningful existence hinges largely on financial wealth. My father never made any money in his life, but he was one of the wealthiest people I'd ever known. He was a country boy who made it all the way to the big city of New York to attend university but retained an almost spiritual affinity for the land.
The image that remains uppermost in my mind is that of my father spending the entire Sunday in the yard wearing a frayed straw hat carrying a cutlass which he sharpened every day to the extent that it could cut a car in half. When he watched cricket, I am sure the neighbours had to tolerate a lot of salty commentary emanating from my house. Our house was also vagrant central, because my father could not turn away anyone who would stand cap in hand at our gate. In his later years it had become obvious that some people were taking advantage of his good nature. I suppose my father would rationalise his continued beneficence by convincing himself that not all of them could be that way.
I do not covet at the material acquisitions of others; these things which we use to measure our success and achievements. In the end all of these things will be left behind, all that will be remembered of you is how you lived and related to those around you. My Father, though he had his flaws like most men, I expect he will be remembered most for how he lived.
