Obituary for Walter Russell Langille

Life Story for Walter Russell Langille

MY FATHER


My father was away for much of my childhood-ten days at sea with two days at home before leaving again. Despite these absences, he’s always been a powerful presence in the lives of my brothers and sisters and me.

I remember little homecoming rituals I shared with him: digging through stale clothes to the bottom of his sea bag for the opened but never-empty bag of candy that was always there, reading the comics he’d always buy for me in the car while he had a beer with his buddies in the tavern.

When I finally found the courage to learn to ride a bike, he saved quarters all winter so I could have a new bike for Easter that spring, his way of showing how proud he was of me.

The time my brothers and sisters and I spent alone with my mother cemented our relationship with a closeness to her that endures to this day. However, there were conversations that ended when my dad came in the room; there were things we could share with Mom that we weren’t comfortable sharing with Dad. I didn’t understand until much later how that must have hurt him. The extended periods he spent away from us were necessary to provide for his wife and six children. How could he not resent this feeling of alienation in his own home, surrounded by people he loved.

His work was dangerous. Men routinely lost fingers or were even pulled overboard by the heavy trawl they used to catch fish. When I was in grade one, I came downstairs one morning to get ready for school and my mother was sobbing. I remembering her handing me a box of crackers and sending me back upstairs. She had just found out that my father’s ship had been run over in thick fog by a freighter. She did not yet know if he was alive or dead. It was the first and only time I saw him on television or in the newspaper as he and the other few men (of a crew of seventeen) who had survived came ashore after their rescue. He’s never spoken of it to me, and I’ve never had the courage to ask.

My father has always been a forceful man with strong opinions and a volatile temper. I can count the number of times I’ve spoken back to him on two fingers, tops. The only reason I’d survived both was probably shock and disbelief on his part. It was only years later that I realized that I could openly disagree with something he said without the world grinding to a halt on its axis.

There were stories of his exploits on the ocean. As first mate, he would occasionally confiscate liquor, which was not allowed on the ship, and heave it overboard when it was impairing a crewmember’s efficiency or good judgment. I don’t think anyone ever saw fit to question his actions.
Once, my brother ran into trouble with a girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend . He arrived at our house with two buddies for backup after already trying to run my brother off the road earlier in that day. My father always wore work boots, invariably untied as was the local custom. This day, expecting trouble, perhaps even welcoming it, he laced up his boots before he left the house. Words were exchanged, but the three young men never left the car, and I remember one of them scrambling away from the window as my father reached in to haul him out. The police were never called. The young men never came back.

Now my dad is old. I see fewer fiery outbursts, the strength that always seemed limitless has been cheated away from him by age, hard work, and arthritis. His memory sometimes plays tricks on him now. However, he still retains the one thing that has always remained constant, his devotion to his family, his love of children and his wife, a love that we all return to him in kind. This is what has always defined this man, my father.

With love to my dad, Jamie