Pat Mckenna

September 23, 2018

I hear voices... No, not those kind of voices. The voices that I hear carry me back to my childhood; voices of long departed loved ones; my parents, my brother, my grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, and perhaps a few teachers as well! And there is one voice that carries a peculiar Irish accent...

Patrick McKenna was an Irishman who worked as a hired man on our family farm. From my earliest memories, until I was about age ten, he was part of our household on a more or less continuous basis. Born in Belfast in 1895, Pat had a colorful and somewhat checkered past. He had worked in the Irish linen mills as a child and then at some point had joined the British army.

Somehow in the years following World War One he made his way to Canada. Pat spent several years drifting from farm to farm in Manitoba and then in southern Alberta. He worked as a labourer on the CPR section gang, laying and repairing railroad track in various locations. In the summer of 1930, he appeared on the farm of my grandparent’s, Robert and Rebecca Hainsworth who farmed southeast of Lacombe. Thus began Pat’s long association with the Hainsworth family, a connection that would last for more than 50 years. In the winter of 1933-34, assisted by my father James, age 14 and his brother Laurie, age 12, Pat took over care of the farm, allowing Robert to go back to England for an extended stay. After leaving the employment of my grandfather, Pat’s wanderings and whereabouts are a little unclear, however he re-appeared on my parent’s doorstep sometime in the early 1950s and worked for my father until some time in the mid to late 1960s.

By the time I was born in 1956, he was a regular member of the household. My mom took care of his laundry and shopped for the few personal items that he required. There was a seat at the table for him and always a few presents under the Christmas tree. Pat took on the daily tasks of doing the chores as well as maintaining fences and other odd jobs around the farm. We children would often accompany him as he did his work.

Pat disdained motorized machinery for the most part, but grudgingly drove a small Massey Harris Pony tractor with a trailer to carry fencing supplies . This worked to my advantage. Farm safety advocates would be horrified to know that from the age of about four, Pat would employ me to be the tractor operator. As I was unable to reach the pedals, he would engage first gear from a standing position beside the tractor and then allow me to steer. I, of course, was delighted and would always willingly accept the role of Pat’s assistant.

Pat had a formative effect on the development of us children. He spoke with a thick Irish brogue... a gate was pronounced “gay-ut” and a car was a “keehar”. Although I don’t personally remember, evidently my older brother Bruce and I both had a pronounced Irish accent as we learned to talk! He had a wide ranging knowledge of everything from sailing ships to boxing which he freely shared with us children. He was an expert in tying knots and he taught me to construct a hangman’s noose before I learned to read. He knew a few slight of hand magic tricks, one of which I now use to the delight of my own grandchildren. He liked to sketch comical faces. Some of these exist today on walls of out buildings around the farm and drawn in the sidewalk cement of the old farmhouse.

Pat was also a built in babysitter, who indulged us kids by letting us stay up later that usual to watch TV. Upon seeing the lights of my parent’s car driving into the yard, he would exclaim “‘B’Jasus, your folks are home! You kids better get ta bed!” And regularly, he would indulge us with comic books, chocolate bars and other treats.

As we grew, Pat liked to regale us with stories of his past. At some point he had lived with another bachelor in the district, whose name was Ez Wilkins. I can clearly remember him warming up to tell us another story about his adventures with Ez by stating, “So I sez to Ez, ‘Ez, I sez’...” And off he would go on another tale. Whether he said this once, several times, (or perhaps not at all), the tape recorder in my brain still plays it back with convincing fidelity.

In spite of his gentle manner with us, there was a certain sadness in Pat that helped to explain his alcoholism and his wandering ways. A lot of the details of his early life were shrouded in mystery, and it wasn’t until after his passing in 1983 that the truth was finally revealed. Although he was a chronic alcoholic, he could stay “on the wagon” for months, sometimes even years, before going on another binge. It was during one these bouts with the bottle in his later years that he was able to shed light on his mysterious past.. Pat was then living in a boarding house in Lacombe. Sensing perhaps that his time was drawing near, he summoned my father and, in a confession of sorts, was able to purge some of his dark secrets. Before doing so however, he swore my father to secrecy, so it wasn’t until after Pat's passing that the rest of the family learned any of this.

After World War One, Pat had signed up to serve in Germany with the British Army of Occupation. At this point in his life, he was married and had two daughters back in Ireland. Upon going home to Ireland, most likely on leave, he had discovered that his wife was in an affair with another man. Pat’s life took a devastating turn at this point. He made a secret plan with his sister, who was to spirit the daughters away and take them with her to Australia where Pat would meet them at a later date. At this point, Pat deserted from the British Army and made his way to Canada, most likely on his way to Australia. As well, at this point, fearing that he would be court-marshaled, he changed his surname to McKenna. One can only speculate as to what happened to interrupt his plan of going to Australia to be reunited with his family. All we know is that it never happened.

Children have a wonderful way of accepting “what is” without question or conjecture. I had no idea of how unusual our situation was. For all I knew, every family had an Irish hired man living in their basement. Little did I realize the richness that he brought to our lives until I was much older. And even now, in the quiet of the night, I still hear that Irish brogue exclaiming “So I Sez to Ez...”