Thoughts on Father’s Day

Gilles MacBean

Martyred hero of the Battle of Culloden

As I think about my dad today, I realize he was many people in one—a physician, college president and hospital administrator, a lifelong progressive, a staunch Methodist, a devoted gardener. But the side of Dad that most brings a smile to me is fascination with his Scottish ancestry.

My maiden name is MacBain, and Dad was a member of the McBain Clan (there are countless ways to spell it). Once, a native Scot said to me, rather condescendingly, “One of the lesser clans,” but I was quick to counter, “Maybe, but a part of Clan Chattan.” In the bloody days of Scotland’s history, Clan Chattan was an amalgamation of clans united for protection against such larger marauding clans as the Campbells.

I’m not sure how Dad’s fascination with Scottish history and ancestry began, whether it had to do with his being Canadian or not, nor do I know if my grandparents shared his interest. But Dad read about Scotland, studied its history, collected fat file folders labeled, “MacBain.” He had a MacBain plaid tie, though he never went so far as to don a kilt. A sword passed down, so I was told, from the War of 1812 was one of his treasures.

It was probably in the late ‘50s or early ‘60s that a gentleman named Houston McBain was the McBain of McBain, the chief of the clan. He was also the chairman of the board of that iconic department store, Marshall Field & Company. I think Dad’s friendship with Houston began by letter, progressed to telephone calls, and eventually resulted in one or two meetings. Dad used to joke that if Houston McBain wanted to tell him they were related, he was all for it. By serendipity, Houston’s daughter married a student at the osteopathic college where Dad was president, giving them yet something else in common.

Houston purchased a part of the original McBain homestead in the hills above Loch Lomond. It was just a small part, but he complained that people don’t realize it’s as difficult to get a Scot to part with his land as it is to part him from his money. The memorial park established on this land is not a cemetery but simply land dedicated to the clan. Although there is a surfaced parking lot, it is essentially in its steep and natural state. Houston once complained that tourists were stealing the heather—several varieties grew on the land.

Mom and Dad visited the memorial park, and someplace I have the pictures that Dad, an addicted amateur photographer, took. It was a thrill for me in 2010 to travel to Scotland with my two oldest children and visit the park. We climbed one of the hills to a sitting area with a bench where we could see a tiny patch of Loch Lomond. No wonder Dad always liked to play “The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond” on the piano. When I was a kid, I knew all the words so I could sing along with him—neither of us ever able to carry a tune.

From the memorial park, Colin, Megan, and I stopped in the pub in the village of Dores, outside Inverness, and signed the McBain Memorial Park guest registry. We paged back and found my parents’ signatures, and one of the kids wondered aloud if someday they would bring their children to sign the  book and look back for our signatures.

The sense of strong Scottish identity is one of Dad’s gifts to me, just as the trip to Scotland was a highlight of my life. We rented a car and drove from Edinburgh to the Isle of Skye, and then made our way back by weaving through various villages, stopping to eat in pubs, spending the night in B&Bs.

Today I have a trivet and a wall hanging with the clan crest, a marvelous handmade quilt with alternating squares of plaid and plain fabric and the crest, in gold, in the center—Colin and Lisa made it for me. I long ago outgrew the one McBain plaid kilt I had, but I have a square from the plaid carpet that Houston McBain ordered woven. And my couch sports lap blankets in the McBain and Stewart plaids. Colin as the oldest child, has the sword, the MacBain tie, and a miniature bagpipe. These memorabilia make me feel that Dad is still close.

Sláinte, Dad! I miss you.

Memories and elevators

Strange how a little thing can trigger an old memory. There was one of those rather silly questions on Facebook: “Who remembers when elevators had operators?” And boom! I was ten years old again and riding in an elevator to my dad’s office. A woman wearing a uniform and white gloves operated the elevator—I so remember those white gloves.

During the morning, my dad was the president/hospital administrator at the Chicago College of Osteopathic Medicine, but in the afternoon he was  in private practice as a manipulative osteopathic physician, with an office on the seventeenth floor of the Marshall Field Annex in downtown Chicago.

A trip to Field’s, as we called it, was a special treat for me. I can’t remember if Mom and I drove or took the Illinois Central—probably a bit of both. But I know I lived in anticipation for days beforehand. I knew, of course, about the “other” store, Carson Pirie Scott & Company, but Field’s was “our” store.

We started on the first floor, with its wide aisles and glass-and-dark wood cases showing everything from nylon hose and stationery to jewelry. At Christmas, it was a fairyland, with Santa driving his reindeer high above our heads, greenery and red bows everywhere, and Christmas music playing.

On an ordinary day we worked our way up, floor by floor. My memory is not clear, but I think housewares were on two or three, and girls clothing, which of course interested me, on four or five. The top floor—was it six or seven?—held restaurants. I particularly remember the Verandah, decorated to look like a southern front porch (or someone’s idea of that) and the more staid Walnut Room. Years later, on a return to Chicago, a friend and I ate in the Walnut Room and found it disappointingly shabby.

I think Mom had a map of Field’s imprinted in her brain, but she knew all the nooks and crannies. My favorite was in the basement were the sale items were—bargain basement had real meaning in those days! Tucked into one corner was a small counter that served hot dogs and chocolate frosted malts. I thought that was the best treat in the world.

Then if you knew where you were going you wound through dry goods to an obscure doorway, went up a flight of stairs, and into a hallway—you had gone under the street and were in the Annex building. Into the elevator and up to the 17^th floor, then around a corner, down a long hall with marble wainscoting (I suppose it was real), and there was the office Dad shared with three colleagues. Spoiled child that I was, I loved going there because the two women who ran the office always fussed over me. Mrs. O’Donnell always wore a starched white uniform and her stiff RN cap. She was a happy, outgoing, but very efficient woman who assisted the doctors who had a more general practice involving office procedures.

Dad’s office was simply two treatment rooms adjacent to the desk where Rose the receptionist sat. Rose was a gentle soul, a spinster I believe, quiet and retiring but most concerned about those around her. She once asked Dad so often if he felt well because, she said, he didn’t look well that he went home a sick man and asked Mom how he looked. But I remember treats from Rose and fine conversations with her.

Then it would be time for all of us to go home for the day. Dad, a proper gentleman in the British style, would put on his Brooks Brothers overcoat and don his fedora, and we headed for the elevators. No matter which operator we got, he or she always said, “Evening, Doc.” It made me think my dad was a really important man. And, of course, he was.

Remembering my father

 My father’s been gone since 1977, but I never fail to mark his birthday which is today. I hesitate to tell you how old he would be but will say he was born at the tail end of the 19^th Century and fought, for Canada, in WWI. Obviously I was a late in life baby. Dad was a dignified, disciplined man with a firm sense of right and wrong and a deep love for his family, though I don’t remember that he often played with us. He loved to tell the story of taking me sledding in the park in front of our Chicago house when I was probably three or so. Another man happened along and said, “I guess I’ll go get my granddaughter too.” Dad was crushed. In my teen years I worked for Dad—he was director of a hospital and president of an osteopathic college, though the former took most of his time. I eventually became his executive secretary before I went off to graduate school. What I learned from him has stood me in good stead through the years, and I could still be the best executive secretary you ever saw.
Dad’s avocation was his garden. On weekends he’d be out on his hands and knees, working in his garden as shabby as any homeless man. His appearance never bothered him, even when neighbors, friends or students came by. In retirement he had a lavish garden in the foothills of North Carolina. And he adored his grandchildren, laughing at their antics, taking them walking in the snow, showing them flowers. He always said Megan brushed her teeth with such enthusiasm she was going to brush them right out of her head. Jordan was six months old his last summer—none of us knew then about the aortic aneurysm that would kill him. He would sit on the porch in North Carolina and watch her on her blanket on the floor for hours—he seemed to think she was created for his amusement.
He would be proud of my children today though there are some aspects of their lives that would worry him, and he’d probably sneak me off in a corner to tell me what they should do, as though they were still children. I try to talk to my grandchildren about him to keep his memory alive. He was a proud member of the MacBean clan (actually we spelled it MacBain) and I feel that Highland heritage strongly. My two oldest children took me to Scotland a few years ago, and we visited the MacBain Memorial Park, high above Lochness. Nope, no sighting of Nessie. But my house has many Scottish things, and my oldest son is the keeper of the tradition. Grandfather would be proud of that. My youngest son is a devotee of good Scotch, and his grandfather would approve that too.
Dad was also a newshound and devoted Democrat—we dared not talk during the news. I often think of what his reaction would be to today’s politics, but I know he would applaud President Obama. His heroes were FDR and Winston Churchill. To me, that speaks to the character of the man.
I was always in a bit of awe of him, I admired him, I laughed at his foibles—once when he thought it was time for guests to go home, he began to run the vacuum. But above all I loved him, and I miss him. I often wish he was here so I could consult him. I remember when he died thinking “There goes the last man who will take care of me.” (I was supposedly happily married at the time.) I will say my brother has stepped into that role nicely, not that I necessarily need a man to take care of me.

Wow! I started out to write about a day split between work and family and ended up with a paean to my father. He’s worth it.

Father's Day Musings

Sophie and I are spending a lazy, quiet Father's Day at home, just the two of us. My father has been gone thirty-seven  years, and I've been single thirty years. The fathers in my family to celebrate are my brother (father of two, grandfather of five) and my wonderful sons and sons-in-law but they are all far away. The local family has gone to Denton to be with Christian's family and watch the TCU College World Series baseball game. I was invited but declined--a long day was not what I wanted after our doggie birthday party last night. The dog honoree half of this household is totally tapped out. Has slept all morning.
I've piddled--watering plants, watched Sunday morning TV and read the paper--used to take an hour; now it takes ten minutes. But I did make a meat-loaf--two lbs. of ground meat may sound a bit much for one person but it will make great sandwiches...and I may share either with the Burtons or the houseguests I'm expecting this week. It's a mix of mostly ground lamb with a bit of ground pork.
I've actually made some progress on editing my work-in-progress, and my mentor sent me a critique with lots of helpful suggestions, so I'm anxious to keep working. But I do think I feel a nap coming on.
Father's Day of  course brings back memories of my dad, and I wish I had digital images to post  like so many others have. Dad was forty when I was born--not so old today but old in that day. He was a workaholic, so I don't remember much playing but I do clearly remember hearing the story of the day he took me as a toddler, to sled on the small hill in the park by our house. Another gentleman came along and said, "Well, I guess I'll go home and get my granddaughter too." Dad was crushed.
There are other good memories--vacations in the Indiana Dunes, trips to Canada, his birth place, but I came closest to my father when I worked for him.
He was president of an osteopathic college and administrator of the associated hospital, and yes, he brought his work home with him at night. I was his executive secretary for several years while in college, and whatever management and organizational skills I have I got from him. Nothing angered him more than to answer his phone and hear a secretary say, "Please hold for...." He answered his own phone and thought others should place their own calls.
Dad was a voracious reader, and sometimes he and Mom read aloud to each other at night. They particularly liked Will and Ariel Durant's histories, and Dad was a huge fan of Winston Churchill. On weekends, his spent his time gardening and when he retired, gardening was his principal activity. He loved it. And he made a terrific grandfather, spending more time with his grandchildren and taking great delight in them. He particularly thought Jordan, my youngest, was created especially for his delight. But they all also remember how strict he was about table manners.
Thanks, Grandfather, for making me the person I am and for giving me standards to live up to.