Is Daddy coming home?

It was hot in Oshawa on May 23, 1975—over 28º C. The sun was shining down on five-year-old me as I walked home from a long day of playing with plasticine and drawing with fat crayons in Mrs. Jeffery’s kindergarten class. It was a Friday and only three days away from my birthday—life was fantastic. I had spent a long time pestering my parents to buy me a guitar and was certain that on Monday morning I would wake up and get started on my new career—famous musician.

As I turned the corner I could see the red painted brick of our 2-story house and a row of green lawns dotted with pretty yellow dandelions—I was almost home. The gate slammed behind me as I ran up the steps, ready to greet my dad…but Daddy didn’t meet me at the door. As I made my way to the kitchen I noticed a clean empty plate on the table, accompanied by a knife, fork and glass. Odd. Dad was usually finished eating by now. He’d come home from his job as a gardener at John Brouwer Landscaping, shower and have lunch before going to his second job at the old Dunlop Tire plant in Whitby.

“Is Daddy coming home?” I asked my mom.
“I don’t know, I’m scared”, was her quiet response.

Moments later there was a knock on the door. Two uniformed police officers stood in front of us asking if my father was home. “You know he’s not,” answered my mom who was quickly getting frantic. These officers were dispatched to give my mother the horrific news—Daddy wasn’t coming home. My father had died at work, drown in a swimming pool on the Brouwer property. Apparently, the employees were allowed to cool off in the pool—one of those old style in-ground pools with a shallow end that led to a steep drop and (in this case) no divider rope to warn the swimmer of the change in depth—and my father, who wasn’t a strong swimmer, slipped to the deep end and never got out.

Our happy home had been turned upside down—my 30-year-old stay-at-home mom was now a widow forced to figure out how she was going to financially and emotionally raise my little sister and I. Needless to say, she was a mess and the future looked bleak. Brouwer didn’t show up at the funeral or call but he did send flowers. No financial compensation was ever offered and my mother, who could barely speak English, didn’t know where to turn or what to do. The clerk at the Employment Agency encouraged her to apply for social assistance but for a proud Portuguese woman, this was not an option. A friend at Chrysler’s Ajax plant took my mother to fill out an application and speak with Margaret, the manager in charge of hiring. Her application showed no outstanding skills and no experience but Margaret had pity and hired the young lady sitting in front of her, dressed head to toe in black.

Years later my cousin Tony was speaking with his lawyer and mentioned the accident. Naturally, there should have a settlement but unfortunately the statute of limitations stated that any claim had to be made within two years of the accident. Disappointing but in the big picture, it was unimportant. Financially we were fine. Mom worked hard to make sure my sister and I were comfortable, and our extended family pitched in to help raise us.
It’s been 44 years since Daddy last came home and although I don’t usually think of his death as a “work accident” because it happened on his break, I do think of it as preventable had safety precautions been in place. I spent my 6th birthday at my father’s funeral, not exactly what I had planned but I find solace in knowing the last purchase he made was a sunburst acoustic guitar.

David Ganhão