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For dad, with love.

 

I remember his face as he walked up the spiral staircase to the upper level where a small group of young students sat in two rows facing the same direction at easels with paintings at various stages of their development. It was awe, joyful surprise, and pride. Clearly, he was impressed. 

 

In my first two hour painting class on a Saturday morning, at the age of 11, I learned to mix the colours of a thunderous sky. My teacher drew in the horizon line and split the sky into 3 sections. I was to fill the upper 3rd with a mixture of ultramarine blue and burnt umber which I applied in even strokes. Afterwards, I was indicated to paint in the lower 3rd with a mix of naples yellow and white. Then I was to do a gradation from the top to the bottom without dirtying the upper or lower third. I did that without any trouble. Then the magic happened. Mixing some of the dark paint from the upper with the lower light horizon sky colour on the palette, my instructor showed me how to apply the paint from the top left corner toward the centre and again from the upper right corner to the centre using a #10 hogs hair flat in direct criss cross applications to create the thunderclouds in the sky. This was magical! Creating such an illusion with paint wasn't realistic by any means, but from any angle it was clear this was a scene threatening thunder and rain.

 

After that I vaguely remember the landscape was similarly split into 3 sections. There was straight path in the centre and three bushes with shadows which don't make sense now that I think about it, but so what. I was a kid and I got to play with adult toys. It took two sessions to complete the painting and a week later, my teacher put the highlights on the trees and other little things I don't quite recall. I do remember my dad's smiling face, and I really couldn't believe how amazed he was. I remember thinking or feeling a bit foolish as it was all my teacher because I would not have been able to do this without him. 

 

I took these lessons at age 11, 12 and for a bit at 13, but got dismayed at having to copy the same paintings every student had to paint and watching my teacher put the finishing touches on all our paintings. I wanted to do my own thing and my teacher insisted I make copies. Eventually, he told my dad he couldn't teach me anymore as I was bored. And I was. In fact it took 13 years before I picked up a brush again only to muddle my way through a terrible painting and realize I could not do it on my own and forgot about it until I was 42 where I've been muddling my way ever since.

 

My dad was a very interesting guy. He loved to tell jokes and laugh at them, again and again. He was funny. He loved impressing people and being helpful. He is the epitomy of a hero. A rescuer. A risk taker. The stakes were never too high for him. He also drank. A lot. He had explosive anger. He was amazing and scary all at the same time. And I loved him.

 

At 19 on my way to visit and live with dad a few months, I flew on a DC-9 from Dorval Airport to Vancouver. It took about 9 hours, my ears were shot, and I was dizzy from reading 16 Archie comic books. I was really only interested in the drawings. I swear!

 

When our noisy plane circled over Vancouver I was amazed at the beautiful coastal mountains, the light on them and the view of the city and the water. It was a warm sunny day with no snow on the ground. My dad met me at YVR and drove us in a little green MG, borrowed from the lovely long curly haired 18 year old dispatcher whose name I don't recall, to South terminal where he was to pilot the DC-3 for Pacific Coastal Airlines on their regular Cassidy - Vancouver run. The 10 minute flight over the straight took my breath away and I instantly fell in love with this area.

 

 Pacific Coastal DC-3, 1979

 

Living with dad and his girlfriend in Ladysmith, my desire was to get a job, however, at the time there was a restriction on foreign applicants, meaning, preference was not given to out of province residents which made finding a job very difficult. So I hung out with dad, he took me out and made me drive, though I didn't have a license and drove illegally until I was 23, but that's a story for another day. We spent a lot of days at the beaches around Ladysmith, Cedar, Bowser and Fanny Bay. We went to Victoria, saw totem poles and the wax museum. A day drive to see the bent trees at Tofino, the giants at Cathedral Grove and the snow in the mountains. He also took me on a memorable ferry day trip to Vancouver with a stop at famed steam clock at Gastown, and the aquarium where I saw my first killer whale, and a drive through Kitsilano to show me the manicured topiary shaped trees and the lushness of westcoast yards. Driving around in February and March with green grass and no snow was quite an unreal experience in my world.

 

 Dad and I in Ladysmith, 1979

 

However, the highlight of my trip was the day my dad took me along when he was flying the Nanaimo - Comox - Campbell River - Port Hardy run. I sat on the jump seat of the DC-3, wore a headset and could hear my dad and Chris talk. Dad flew low between the mountain tops and banked the aircraft for my benefit as I gawked at the scenery standing between them in the cockpit.

 

 

View from plane, Vancouver Island, 1979

 

I had so much fun as we approached the runways watching as dad and Chris competed at who could touch down the smoothest. I was amazed as it seemed from nowhere, over a stand of trees, gicantic white markings and black tarmac appeared indicating the landing strip. Always, they both laughed after they slowed the plane after touch down. Kinship and love for flying.

 

 From the cockpit of the DC-3, 1979

 

Chris and his wife also owned or managed the pub near Cassidy airport called the Cassidy Inn. My dad would often take me there and he would play pool and buy me a beer. I was not of legal drinking age here, and dad told them I was his daughter to serve me a goddamn beer. Then I would drive us home.

 

One day in March, I believe, as we drove by the airport my dad whipped the car around the old highway 19 and headed to a road at the end of the north end of the runway. He noticed a plane crash just after take off. It was his colleague and friend piloting. When we arrived near the scene, no emergency vehicles were there yet and some crew members were attempting to put out the fire and save people. No one survived the crash. Dad and I went to the funeral in Vancouver. It was a difficult time for him and I went back to Montreal soon after.

 

I only saw my dad three times after that. He drove across the country in 1984 to visit friends and family. He was no longer flying. In August of 1986, my brother, sister and I flew him to Ontario so we could all spend time on a sailboat my partner and I owned in Georgian Bay. We had not all been together since 1976 when he and my mother separated on January 1st. I last saw him on Christmas Day 1986 and he passed away on New Years Eve that same year. Dad's girlfriend called me that day to let me know and she and I lost touch after a year or so. 

 

 My siblings, dad, and myself in August 1986

 

Then, about 10 years ago dad's girlfriend 'friended' me on facebook. I had no idea who she was because she had married and her name was not familiar. It eventually dawned on me so I asked her if she was who I thought she was and asked her how she found me and she responded with 'I googled you because your dad told me you would be an artist one day'. I think he knew something I didn't, even if he never got to see this in his lifetime. He left us too soon and I still miss him.

 

Frederick (Fritz) Thomas Bluethner, November 8, 1925 - December 31, 1986