A Bit About Dad (Daniel Joseph Teevens) …
I was born in Bells Corners, Nepean Township, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada to Danny and Gwen Teevens – mom and dad – October 8th, 1962. They had a two-year-old ‘hard-headed’ boy named Perry. Three and a half years later Cheryl, baby sister, was born. She was the apple of her daddy’s eye.
Downtown Bells Corners 1970, last of the ground swelling McDonalds’ arches in the background still existing to this day where I worked until 1979 when we moved to Fresno, California USA.
Perspective: Bells Corners is a suburban community in the city of Ottawa, Canada. Ottawa is the capital city of Canada. Bells Corners is in Nepean Township surrounded by Ottawa’s Greenbelt Forest. This is my hometown. The oldest buildings in Bells Corners are from 1870 when the city was destroyed by fire. It is an island surrounded by Greenbelt and farmland. The Greenbelt is a protected area of green space first proposed in 1950.
Bells Corners has been featured in the film, ‘Going Thru a Thing’ produced and directed by former resident Jo Marr. Most well-known would-be Steve Yzerman, former NHL hockey star for the Detroit Red Wings and general manager of the Tampa Bay Lightning. He lived in Bells Corners and attended Bell High School, a place I frequently visited after cutting my way through the trails of the Greenbelt Forest.
Growing up in the suburbs of Ottawa winter blankets of snow covered the landscape. Summers were easy with baseball and soccer absorbing the parks and bicycles occupying the streets. Mom and dad would take us to the Teevens’ Farm, the place of his birth. Fitzroy Harbor. Corn stalks stood tall next to the barn where we parked. Cattle were in the distance grazing in the field.
Dad, Perry, and I would go off hunting. Dad ‘n Perry would peel off shooting partridge or some other unfortunate fowl. I’d be out shelling bottles on a fence post or executing a discolored spot on a tree. I hated the thought of killing an animal.
Back at the farm mom would be wandering the property or picking corn. Cheryl would drift by the barbed wire fence not far from the corn stalks. She loved to sing and could carry a tune, like dad. Here she had an audience. With her blonde curls and dress, she’d proudly entertain the cows with her serenading and showmanship.
The cows surely loved it.
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Dad was bigger than life to us. He was a police officer and gun enthusiast with a heck of a knuckle sandwich, a fixed stare that was more debilitating than any bullet wound. We feared, respected, and obeyed! He made certain we earned our room and board. Perry and I’d take turns with the electric lawn mower and its twenty-four-foot cord whipping it from side to side, dump trash, clean our rooms, or wake early to clear the snow-covered laneway. I’d reach skyward with a shovel full of sludge, half sliding in my face, trickling down the gaps of my clothes to the warm of my back.
Chilly, nippy, penetrating, Brrr.
My first employable job was local paperboy, age 9. Every day for over four years I dropped my books at home after school and cut through the neighbors’ backyards to the corner of Ridgefield and Cherrywood Drive. Having a paper route at a young age created self-reliance, work ethic, discipline, and an opportunity to rehearse my young communication skills. Mom was my trusted substitute whenever I couldn’t deliver the newspapers.
Each afternoon after delivering papers we’d eat together at the kitchen table unless dad was working the night shift. Dinner was always a welcome comfort with mom being a no nonsense, meat ‘n potatoes homemaker. Occasionally, we were treated to our beloved fluorescent orange Kraft macaroni dinners with diced hotdogs throughout. I could eat those World War II rations for days.
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Roles and responsibilities for mom, dad, and us kids were well defined, understood, and accepted. In modern times it seems ancient history, old-fashioned, but in the 1960s and 70s it was black and white just like many of the TVs. It made life simple knowing when I was in or out of line, in or out of trouble. I didn’t like it but often what I didn’t like was good for me, I just didn’t know it at the time.
On occasion during school nights or on weekends dad relaxed and allowed us to stay up past our bedtime. Hockey Night in Canada was featured on his nineteen-inch, vintage RCA Solid State six-channel black and white TV. No remotes. No streaming channels. Dad and I liked each other’s teams. Dad cheered the Chicago Blackhawks with #9 ‘The Golden Jet’ Bobby Hull. Boston Bruins speedy, scoring, playmaking genius was simply known as Bobby Orr #4; my one and only sports hero. Perry, the archenemy, was infatuated with Henri Richard winning eleven Stanley Cups with the Montreal Canadians.
Sportsmanship between the three of us was tolerable unless Montreal played one of our teams. Perry would hoot and holler like an ass whenever Montreal scored, or Ken Dryden kept a puck from crossing the goal line. One evening dad became the ultimate referee. Montreal was trouncing Chicago and Perry’s hooting and hollering sent us to bed late in the 2nd period.
Minutes later, I snuck out of bed crawling to the bottom of dad’s door jamb peeking in to watch the final period. He’d avert his eyes from me, sending Perry back to bed. No doubt, dad did what had to be done. I understood completely.
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Short family outings down country roads through little townships on our way to Renfrew, Arnprior, or Fitzroy Harbor were quite frequent. Dad would punch the gas and mom would say, “Slow down, Danny. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. What are you teaching the kids? Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. You should know better.”
Mom’s words coasted out the window before landing in his ear. Before approaching a hill, dad would accelerate then pull his foot from the gas just as the car was floating over its crest. Our stomachs would rise stuck in our throats and just as suddenly fall to our feet leaving us more than a little light-headed … begging for more, all but mom that is.
Before long we’d get to Fitzroy Harbor, dad’s roots, visiting family and friends on the Delahunt’s farm. We’d enter through a metal swinging gate and cruise up the long dirt road to the two-story classic farmhouse. A celebration of sorts was awaiting us, everybody laughing, telling jokes, hugging, and kissing the children. Dear, down-to-earth welcoming comfort folk.
A red and white painted wine barrel rested in the center of the front yard by a picnic table under a decades old bur oak tree. The refurbished barrel filled with ice, beers, and sodas. Us kids would cut across the open hay field making our way to the corner country store with its creaking wood plank floors and screen door slamming shut behind us. I’d reach my arm inside the metal soda dispenser emblazoned with ‘Drink Coca-Cola’, forearm and hands numb eagerly fingering my way in search of a vanilla cream soda in a pool of iced water.
Later in the evening the adults would gather sharing stories, playing the piano, and singing their favorite songs while sipping on a favorite beverage. Dad was the main entertainment belting out songs by Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Elvis Presley, Louis Armstrong, Jimmy Durante, and the like. Nothing but the warmest memories shared with those we loved on the legendary Delahunt farm.
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Dad was a remarkable talent singing Christmas songs on local radio and visiting Crystal Bay Centre, home for developmentally disabled children. Here he would impersonate Jimmy Durante and sing songs such as Elvis’ ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ for the star-struck children. “Well, one for the money, two for the show, three to get going, now go, cat, go …”. They loved him, mom told me years later. Dad was this handsome six-foot two-inch man, VO-5 slicked black hair. Likely, the kids thought it was Elvis in the flesh.
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As a ten-year-old young lad routines and schedules began to change around the home. Dad was in and out of the hospital or at doctors’ appointments. Mom was filling the gaps, keeping our family from falling apart. The first sign of dad’s illness was vacationing by car from Ottawa to Duluth, Minnesota, south across the border into the United States.
During our stay in Duluth dad was constipated. I thought it kind of funny as a kid considering someone is full of shit. To a kid that’s funny. This memory is etched in my mind because Perry and I mistook dad’s ex-lax stimulant laxative as a scrumptious corner store chocolate bar. We took it upon ourselves to sneak a bite or two, maybe three. Two thieves we were. It made for the longest evening of my young life, on and off the toilet for hours. Unlike dad we were shitless by morning.
Upon our return to Ottawa, the plot thickened. A doctor gave a more clinical diagnosis. Dad’s discomfort was more than common constipation. It was colon cancer; small malignant, spiteful clumps of polyps gone wild. This led to radiation and chemotherapy treatment. The effects were fatigue, hair loss, bruising, infection, appetite changes, nausea, vomiting, and … yes … constipation. He couldn’t escape it.
Dad had colon cancer which required a colostomy. I didn’t understand that this meant a portion of dad’s large intestine was passed through an opening in his abdominal wall. The edges of his bowel were stitched to his skin at the hole on the left side of his body with a bag attached. This bag would collect each stool before it made its way to his rectum.
As a kid I didn’t get it.
The colostomy was sometimes personally and socially embarrassing. I recall Sunday church services when uncontrollable gurgling sounds emanated from it. People would stare. And during the night, I’d overhear mom getting up to change the sheets on their bed. Dad would have ostomy fecal matter leaks causing the back bedrooms to reek of, well, shit.
As a kid, I got that.
Mom never complained. She was the ultimate servant taking great care of dad, and us. No easy task. Dad dealt with cancer, treatment, and humility with strength and dignity. He surely had moments of self-pity as he had every right, but I sincerely don’t remember one.
In my twelfth-year dad rapidly deteriorated becoming emaciated, weak, and hospitalized. He transformed from a plus two-hundred-pound strapping man to a frail sub one-hundred-pounds. Early in the police force dad walked the likes of Paul Anka across the street after school. He engaged in high-speed chases, enjoyed hunting on the Teevens’ farm, and sang like Elvis Presley. Now, he was too anemic to eat anything but jello. Jello … the only food he despised.
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One recollection, a letter addressed to dad from a man years earlier comes to mind. Dad pulled him over for speeding, ticked that he got a ticket. He took to typing a letter telling dad just how ticked he was. But he couldn’t help himself halfway through, typing,
“I was most taken by the respectful manner you showed me when writing my ticket. I was angry when pulled over but couldn’t stay angry. You were very decent, kind. It’s one ticket I will be willing to accept. Thank you.”
This man in his highly irritated state couldn’t hate dad. He thanked him. He thanked him for a ticket that cost him time and money. It likely took him more time to write the letter than it did getting his traffic citation. This adverse stranger was not alone.
Dad was highly respected and honored during his time on the police force, as well. He gave much and they repaid his generosity the same. He died residing in Ottawa, Canada in 1975. He was 45 years old leaving behind a wife of 36 years and 3 children ages 9, 12, and 13.
Dad was buried in the place of his birth: Fitzroy Harbor, just ten and a half miles east down the Ottawa River from Arnprior, mom’s birthplace. Mom remained providing guidance and direction for us kids, adolescence waiting at our teenage doorstep. God bless her, as she did a hell of a job as a single, young homemaker turned salon owner.
Note: Next week’s post is mom’s decision to remarry, moving us from Canada to California, USA, and proving herself once again to be an incredibly adaptable woman of strength and tenacity.
Take care, my friend 👍
