A 'Letter to the Editor'
From the Great Beyond
By PATRICIA PHILLIPS
Many readers will know from the kind obituary written in the June issue of The Celtic Connection that my father Thomas Phillips of Celista B.C. passed away on May 12 of this year.
It spoke of his many accomplishments but not his most cherished hobby. Over the years you may have caught yourself reading one of his "letters to the editor" not only in The Celtic Connection but in many of the dailies in British Columbia.
My father was addicted to writing letters to the editor on the issues he was passionate about including Irish Unification, British Monarchy, the state of ineptitude on each successive Canadian governing party, the ignored rights of native peoples etc.
His articles were opinionated and sometimes raised more than eyebrows, not just among the readers but at home as well. Forgive me but he seems to have found a way to write one last "letter to the editor" from beyond the grave. He promises little politics, just a summation of his passing.
To Whom It May Concern:
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TOM PHILLIPS
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I write this letter to those I leave behind, hoping you may forgive my petty foibles and remember my kindnesses. Some of you may say "what kindnesses?" Never mind, one or two may surface over a pint or two.
To you Ellen - my long suffering wife - you know that seeking forgiveness is not my strong suit but I shall admit, reluctantly - after many years - to a borderline error of judgment.
Since I need all the good points I can find, I reluctantly apologize for a kindness I set out to make that unexpectedly turned into a foible.
It was the event one Christmas when funds were tight. You the guardian of the purse strings, dressed in your crisp white nurse's uniform counted into my hands the precious coins for the turkey before leaving for the evening shift.
I was quickly on my mission to the butcher by way of the pub and there I met a fellow who had a piano. He had a friend with a truck.
Upon your midnight return, a scratched old upright stood in the middle of the room surrounded by weaving warblers but the only true turkey you noted in the room was me. Forgive me Ellen and children for that fowl or rather fowl-less holiday.
Now Ellen, this is not a letter of apologies to you, because as you warned me many times, I am hard pressed to get them all done on this side. This is a chance I am taking to clear up a few other items.
One, to recount the events of my death and funeral to those who would be amused or had real regret at missing it and further, to properly announce to my legion of fans my retirement (oh joy) from writing "letters to the editor" and why I find it necessary (Oh bliss).
On the night of my passing I had spent a hard working day supervising you Ellen while you swept the driveway. I had to show you the weeds to pull and check the quality of your window cleaning, etc.
I then, greatly fatigued retired to a steaming bath. In anticipation of a wee Irish before dinner I settled into bed for a nap. It seemed my head barely hit the pillow when the room was filled with voices.
There was John Walker from Northern Ireland and his wonderful wife Joyce and you, my little Ellen from the south of Ireland, all peering in close at my face.
John's lips moved, "Do you know who I am Tom?" I was incredulous and snapped back, "Don't be daft you Northern reprobate, you're John." I watched mystified as he turned to you, "He knows me, he called me John."
What the hell were they doing in my bedroom? Then of course it all became clear. I was in the middle of a marvelous historical event.
The true representatives of Northern and Southern Ireland - the ordinary people - were meeting together at my behest to plot the joining of Ireland into one state in the most intimate and secret of places - my very bedroom!
I can hardly wait to tell Trudeau that it puts a twist on his quote, "The state has no place in the bedrooms of the nation." At least this state of affairs was getting it right in my bedroom.
I was so ecstatic that I almost asked John to join The Ancient Order of Hibernians on the spot, of which I am a long standing member. It seemed appropriate for the occasion since the word Hibernia is derived from an ancient Latin name for Ireland when it was one country - before England stuck its nose in.
But I thought better of it since it could derail this peace initiative and deteriorate into arguments over nasties committed in the name of religion differences. Besides it was a mute point since I seemed to be mute to John.
So it was obvious I could now drop the sawing on that old bone in my "letters to the editor." Speaking of bones, the next thing I knew mine were being carried out of a hearse by a motley group of geriatrics and wanna-not-be-geriatrics.
Sensing the possibility of a few stumbles, I held tight to the sides of my dark brown coffin. Leading lifter was my son-in-law Andy Thomson, a truly fine man and supplier of great scotch, partnered with my son Christopher who prefers wine but did not give me a supply.
Stuck in the middle was my next door neighbour Ed Goyan, loyal listener to my lame jokes. I held back the urge to pop up and tell him one due to the solemn occasion but I nearly tipped myself out of the coffin so I could see Everett Lobarge, his carrying partner.
Apparently he was wearing a shirt and jacket. Never knew he owned one. I'm mighty honoured. Jack Carlsen and Sim Etcheverry carried up the rear. I all but invited them in for a rest since they had the strength of only two legs between them.
Following behind were my girls Patricia and Eileen and flanking you, Ellen. When you stood over me Ellen to get a final peek I got one too. You looked lovely in your Kilt.
The Reverend Father George La Grange O.M.I. was our Celebrant. I didn't realize he would do it with such gusto. I wondered if he was celebrating my leaving or happy I was going elsewhere.
However he redeemed himself by commenting that he'd miss my jokes and his loss was heaven's gain. No comment on that yet as I am still gauging the humour around here. But I have a joke about a priest, a rabbi, and an Imam at the ready.
The Reverend reluctantly gave the floor over to the reader Mary Joe Grimm (no pun intended on the grim reaper) and our leader of song the lovely guitar strumming Claudette Carlson and her bevy of songstresses including Joanne Galaway. Joanne Groves near brought me to tears with her solo: In The Garden.
I had a lot of time to take in the surprisingly full house of familiar faces, among them Martin McCormick, Martin and Bridie Rafter up from Vancouver, many from the Irish Society and all the wonderful members of the Seniors in Anglemont.
Finally they got me to the Chase Cemetery just across the street from the church without a pile up, after taking the whole entourage on a drive by of the town. They may have felt obliged to do so to give us our money's worth and show the folks we had done it up right. We didn't pass the legion though.
But sure enough the boys of the Legion Honour Guard led by Rollie Phillips were waiting at the cemetery for me; seeing them lined up in their uniforms, resplendent with medals, brought back heartbreaking memories for me.
Those of us who had participated in the D-Day Landings were invited to Normandy for the 50 year anniversary in 1994. Standing with all the men at that time reminded me what privilege and camaraderie were shared by all those who fought in the arenas of war.
As I was lowered into the earth with the strains of the last post I had only one regret that I had to strain to hear the music. Could we please pass the hat for a new ghetto blaster or simply turn up the volume for the next guy?
In closing, I would like to say what a great Ceilide we had that afternoon of the funeral. I was certainly relieved to see that my liquor cabinet was emptied for the party so you, Ellen, could not indulge any bad habits.
Patricia I would like to thank you for your eulogy, but greater thanks for not roasting me like you did at your mother's and my 60th. Who would imagine that all you wonderful singers: Roy Huitson, Al Kraus, Claudette, Joanne etc. and speakers could re-break my heart? Donna Dancy, you and your crew certainly served up a great spread. Too bad I couldn't get my plate in edge wise.
I understand that Ethna Tutt and Margaret Mullen of the Irish Dancers of Kelowna regretted that they were not there to give me the last dance. But not to worry I am seeing many angels dance on the heads of pins just like your angelic dancers.
Speaking of dancing, my card is full so its time to boast. The Canadian Celtic Association (dead member's chapter) is throwing me a party. As a founding member in life, I am apparently automatically on their board.
The Irish Soccer team that I founded in B.C., has a senior league and is looking for a new coach and for those interested on your side - new members. So all-in-all I am in good spirits among good spirits.
Terry Leonard look skyward and pipe me into my long-awaited visit with the monks who created the Book of Kells. They will want to know or at least believe that I had the chops to help bring a reproduction to UBC.
So sorry I have run out of time to send letters to earth. I am starting my own newspaper here and guess what as? Editor. I look forward to your letters on your arrival.
- Tom Phillips
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