My father was an explorer of life and a teacher for life. Don Hull

My dad could regale you with tales of far off places he has been to, and in the same breath teach you something.

 When my dad spoke of places he visited or worked, it was no cursory look around when he was there.  He would tell you where the people came from, what the industry was, and what grew on the land and why.  Travel for him was how he opened another book.

 There are many ways to go through life, as a worker, or a boss, or an entrepreneur, as a roust about, or just flowing along with the river of life.

 My father paddled up stream in that river, he already saw what was down stream so he would ponder what was around the next bend in the river of life and go for it.

 As a young man he moved from one of the hottest places on earth, the south pacific with Australia and New Guinea to one of the coldest parts of one of the coldest countries Canada and to work in a mine in Northern Ontario.

I remember the first farm he bought in Falkenbug Ontario it was pretty soon when Don realized that the Volkswagen Beetle they had at the time was not going to cut it as a farm vehicle.

 My dad could always remember names and places.  Me I’m a numbers guy.  He could tell you the names of guys he went so school with in elementary school, and tell you the name of the street the hardware store was on 40 years ago in Bracebridge.

One of the things my dad and I did separately together as it were, was the Sunday Times Crossword puzzle.  If we chatted throughout the week, we would not let on to each other which clues we actually had figured out until the week end when the solution came out.  He worked from his ability to remember names and places, as well as reading almost everything that came his way, I worked from the numbers end and having inherited my love of reading and inquiry.  The fun began if we were together and we could usually polish that puzzle off in short order working together.

In Australia they call anything outside of town the “bush”.  In Ontario we really lived in the bush.  Forest all around.  I think my dad loved that, it brought back his years prospecting for gold in New Guinea and the Yukon.

I could go on with stories of his adventures, but this one is true Don Hull.  He packed up his two sons in the car, I think we were 12 and 13, in Bracebridge and drove off with a few supplies, some rock hammers and a geological map of the Parry Sound area.  We stopped and parked on the side of some highway, and struck out onto crown land in the middle of nowhere.

Checking the map, reading the compass, chipping at the odd out-cropping of Quartz. We did this for three days.  Looking for old abandoned mine sites or signs of gold in them thar hills.  When we finally got out of the bush it appeared we were nowhere near the car.  Easy fix!  My dad told us to sit tight and hang around where we were, he would hitchhike back and get the car.  For dad this was just a normal thing to do and I remember his casual acceptance of the situation, his move along and do it anyway point of view.

My dad accepted everybody and everything as a learning experience.  I am sure I will be learning things from him for many years to come.

Of course as you could imagine, my dad did a stint in amateur theater as well.  I think this came from his love of verse.

One of his favourite poets was Robert Service.

In closing I would like to read a short excerpt from a Robert Service Poem in memory of my dad.

Call of the Wild

 

Have you gazed upon naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on,

Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore.

Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blaze on,

Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar.

Have you swept the visoined valley with the green stream streaking through it,

Searched the vastness for a something you have lost.

Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God’s sake go and do it:

Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?

Have you broken trail on snowshoes? Mushed your huskies up the river,

Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?

Have you marked the maps void spaces,

mingled with the mongrel races,

Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?

And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses?

Then harken to the Wild, It’s wanting you.

Then listen to the Wild, it’s calling you.

And the wild is calling, calling, let us go.

 

Thanks dad you are the best