The Winter of Whisky

By Paul Lima

Shivering, I stood on the shore of Grenadier Pond watching my sons, eight-year-old twins Toby and Jeremy, skate with their grandfather. My dad, his cheeks red from the wind, seemed as healthy and as vibrant as his grandchildren. Playing a tame version of crack-the-whip, he held each of my sons securely by a mittened hand and spun them around.

“They’re naturals,” Dad shouted. “They’ll be in the big leagues one day.” He released his hold and sent them gliding towards the shore. At the other end of the pond, just beyond the Danger Thin Ice sign, I noticed several ducks floating in open water.

“Grandpa says you can skate circles around him,” Jeremy said as I helped him off the ice.

“When are you gonna skate on the really frozen ice with us?” Toby asked.

“Maybe next time we visit Grandpa,” I said.

“Maybe next time,” Dad echoed as he lifted Toby on to the shore and helped him remove his skates. “Maybe when hell freezes over …”

“That’s a deal,” I said to my father as I wiped Jeremy’s nose. “Let’s get your boots on, kids, before your toes freeze.”

Once home, we consumed a hearty lunch of soup and sandwiches. Then Dad said it was time to enjoy the comfort of a flaming log in the fireplace. The boys were quick to agree, knowing they’d get hot choco-late with melting marshmallows before their grandpa settled into his story-telling mood.

I cleared the lunch dishes as Dad ushered Toby and Jeremy into the living room. “Put milk on for cocoa, Larry,” he called to me.

By time the hot chocolate was served, the fire was roaring and my dad was ensconced in his favourite chair. My boys and his golden re­triever, Champagne, sat at his feet. The old dog yawned once and rested his head on Toby’s lap. Jeremy smoothed the animal’s rich coat as Dad lifted his mug and blew into the frothy liquid.

“Listen to that,” Dad said after a sip of cocoa. “The wind is sneak­ing down the chimney. I think it’s bringing us a story.” Toby nudged Jeremy with an elbow as if to say, I told you so. “It sounds like an old story. A true story. A never-been-told-before story.”

My father was born and raised in Toronto. He’s been a banker, owned several small businesses and is now retired, but he keeps active as a YMCA director. Yet, as urbanized as he is, the voice with which he tells his stories has a prairie lilt that reminds me of W. O. Mitchell.

“It was the winter of 1958, the Winter of Whisky I call it,” Dad be­gan as the flames flickered. “Your pa was eight years old when we got him a dog. He could be a bit of a brat, your pa. Not like you angels.” The kids chuckled as Dad leaned forward and patted their mop-tops. “But Whisky, it turned out, was an even bigger brat. He could open any garbage can or cupboard door with his snout and he caused all sorts of havoc around our house.” Dad sat back in his chair and sipped his co­coa. “But I’m getting way ahead of myself here.”

Gathered around the stone hearth, an orange glow illuminating their faces, my father and my sons could have been characters in a Rockwell painting. But that image would have least described the rela­tionship between Father and me thirty years ago—during the Winter of Whisky.

“Before Whisky, there was peace in the Marshall family,” my dad continued, “except when Little Larry—that’s what we called your pa then—was fussing over whatever it was he chose to fuss over. And he fussed a whole lot, too.”

My kids tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle giggles. I sat on the couch and pretended to read a newspaper while Dad continued his yarn.

“That winter your pa chose to fuss over wanting a dog. The weather was miserable, with snow piled higher than our backyard fence. And the wind was cold enough to freeze your face in seconds. Your grandma wasn’t well that year. She had pneumonia. I was working hard and sometimes had to be away for a day or two on business. Your pa often had to fend for himself. I guess he wanted company. There weren’t many homes this side of High Park then. He was the only kid around. Other than skate at Grenadier Pond, which he did for hours, there wasn’t much for him to do.”

My sons glanced at me. I knew the look. ‘Why don’t you skate on the pond with us now?’ it said. I buried my head in the newspaper. Dad cleared his throat.

“Now I didn’t think a dog was such a good idea, with your grandma being sick and all. But there was no talking any sense into your pa. ‘Wait ’til spring,’ I said. But Little Larry just fussed and whined. ‘It’s no weather for a dog,’ I said. But he wouldn’t listen to reason.”

It was true, what my dad was saying. I was a bored and lonely child and thought a dog would cure my blues.

“A few weeks before Christmas,” my dad continued, “I had to go to Hamilton on bank business. When I returned home the next day, I was greeted by a mangy mutt piddling on the hall floor. Your grandma was always a soft touch, kids. Sick as she was, she let your pa drag her out to answer an ad in the paper for a free dog. She was bed-ridden an extra-long time because of that little mongrel.”

Dad paused and reached down to pat Champagne.

Until her illness, my mother had pretty much run our household. She did almost everything—even the banking. Dad, who drank with a degree of regularity, seemed unable to cope with mundane, domestic details. The sicker my mother got, the harder Dad worked—for the bank. My mother’s illness and my finicky existence may have exasper­ated him at times but the arrival of Whisky nearly pushed him over the brink.

“What an introduction,” Dad said. “That dog was doing his duty right in my slippers. And where was Little Larry, you ask? Why he was skating on the pond. Now, I had quite a temper in those days, and the only thing that saved your pa from a spanking was your grandma telling me to be kind.”

The thought of their father getting a spanking caused the twins to snort gleefully into their cocoa. Dad coughed lightly to regain their at­tention.

“I wanted to send Whisky to the pound but, like I said, Grandma was soft on Larry. We kept the dog, but I quickly established the ground rules. ‘If there’s going to be a dog in this house,’ I said, ‘things are going to happen my way or there will not be a dog here for long.’ Your pa was to walk the dog every day before school, feed him, bathe him and in­troduce him to newspapers in the basement. The dog wasn’t to chew on anything or bark in the house.”

My dad paused to take another sip of cocoa.

“What do you think the chances were of having a few simple rules followed?” Dad asked. “Fat chance,” he laughed. “Fat chance.”

Dad was right. Whisky obeyed rules about as well as I did, which was not very well at all. While Dad seldom hit me for my transgressions, the dog suffered miserably—for his and mine.

Dad put down his mug. “I called Whisky a little mongrel, but he was actually a Labrador retriever. He may have been a pup, but he was a big pup. When he reared back on his hind legs his snout came up past my waist. And was he ever clumsy. He walked as if he were wearing skates for the very first time. But I didn’t tell you how Whisky got his name, did I?”

Jeremy and Toby shook their heads.

“You’d think the kid who was pining for a dog in the first place would’ve named him, wouldn’t you?”

The boys nodded in agreement.

“Well, first Larry called him Blackie. Then he called him Rover. Then he changed it to King for a day. Then Rex. He soon gave up on names and just called ‘here boy’ whenever he wanted the dog to come. Then one Saturday night, the dog christened himself. Your pa and I were watching the hockey game on TV, the Leafs against the Canadiens. The dog was acting civilized, lying in one corner of the room chewing on another pair of my slippers. It was a close game. In the third period, Maurice Richard—the Rocket we called the speedy Frenchman—took off from behind his net.”

Dad leaned forward as if he were skating up ice with the Rocket.

“Foster Hewitt called the play. ‘Richard fakes a pass and moves out from behind the net … He dodges a check and crosses the blue line … He’s through the neutral zone … Skates across the centre line … He’s at the Leafs’ line, cutting between Horton and Baun … In on Bower. He shoots, he scores!’”

Champagne jerked his head up, then settled back down as Dad continued in a softer voice.

“I cursed the Rocket and pounded my fists on the coffee table. But guess who leaps out of his corner, as if celebrating the goal? Whisky, of course. The poor mutt hit the coffee table at full gallop and slid across the top, legs askew, knocking my glass of rye whisky into Little Larry’s lap. Your pa yelped like a cat on fire. The dog had a barking fit. I shout-ed at them both. And when we sorted out the confusion and every­body settled down, guess who was lapping my drink off the floor? Whisky liked it so much I obliged him with a double. Little fellow slept like a charm that night. Didn’t bark once. And the next day? He was kind of hung over and extra-wobbly when he walked.”

The kids laughed at the image of a wobbly dog with a hangover.

“Unfortunately, I told Grandma what all the fuss had been about. She made me promise never to water the dog with rye again. Which was a shame, because whisky really calmed him down.”

A log shifted in the fireplace. Champagne sniffed as Toby scratch-ed him between the ears. Jeremy finished his cocoa and put down his mug.

Calming down was the opposite of what whisky—and Whisky—did to my dad.

“There were other incidents,” my dad said. “Like the day your pa forgot to let Whisky out. I guess the poor dog held on to it as best he could before he relieved himself on the kitchen floor. I got home late from work and was scurrying about putting on a pot of coffee when I slipped on the mess and landed flat on my back. I almost throttled the dog. I rubbed his nose in it and locked him in the basement. Grandma, always looking at the bright side of things, said, ‘You should be thankful you weren’t carrying a cup of hot coffee when you slipped.’ I told her that the dog should be thankful he was still alive.”

Dad paused to clear his throat.

“By the time Christmas had come and gone, Whisky and I had learned how to accommodate each other, you might say. That means we didn’t get along, but we kept out of each other’s way.”

It wasn’t much of an accommodation between my dad and my dog. On Christmas Eve, Dad raged at Whisky for knocking over the tree. And Dad thrashed my dog early New Year’s morning when Whisky started to yowl loudly for no particular reason and woke him up. Dad had put in a long and lonely New Year’s Eve with a bottle of rye and was fit to kill. I couldn’t appreciate how much Ma’s illness must’ve worried him, or how lonely he must’ve felt with only a whiny kid and an untrainable dog for company.

I also didn’t understand why this grumpy man beat my only friend. And even if I was negligent in my duties, Whisky and I were friends. How could I sympathize with my dad? I was too busy romping in the snow with Whisky or making him chase me as I skated endless circles on the ice at Grenadier Pond.

“It was a blustery, blizzardous January evening,” Dad continued. “The coldest, windiest night of that god-awful winter. It was the night that Whisky got me angrier than I’d ever been in my life …” Dad paused. We both knew what was coming next. Something we had never really talked about.

“I was in my den checking on bank figures when I heard the crash of shattering glass and a hellish howling. It sounded as if the devil him­self had been caught by the tail in our house. I ran into the hallway and saw Whisky racing up the stairs. I ran after him, into the bedroom. Your grandma was sitting on the edge of her bed, fending off a yelping Whisky. ‘Henry,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong? What’s got into him?’ ‘He’s mad,’ I replied. ‘Mad mutt! Out, you beast. Out.’ Whisky faced me. He was bleeding from a cut over one eye. There were several gashes in his nose. I kicked at him but he bolted between my legs. ‘Don’t hurt him, Henry,’ Grandma cried. ‘He’ll feel no pain when I’m through with him,’ I shouted.”

Stretched out on the couch, sinking into its soft cushions, I felt chills running over my body. Dad was oblivious to the kids’ stares. He was back there, chasing my bleeding pup. He had one thought and one thought only on his mind: kill.

“I grabbed my hunting rifle from over the living room fireplace mantel and trailed Whisky into the kitchen.” Dad’s voice was a harsh whisper. “One look up the barrel of my rifle and Whisky flew back out the kitchen window, the one he had crashed through when he broke into the house. I dashed out the back door and into the yard, rifle in hand, cursing the day that dog was born. Whisky stood in deep snow, howling. His eye had puffed up and blood flowed from his cuts. He looked like a badly beaten boxer.”

I wanted my dad to stop telling the story, but I knew it had to be told, and I had to hear it.

“I raised my rifle and shouted, ‘One more sound …’ My trigger finger tensed. Whisky went dead silent. Behind me, wrapped tightly in her nightgown, Grandma rasped. ‘Henry. Where’s Larry?’ Whisky bark-ed once in response. ‘Get back to bed,’ I said to Grandma. ‘Let’s go, boy,’ I shouted. And the dog was off like a shot, barking as we ran. I followed him to High Park. We slid down a small hill and crossed a slip­pery wooden bridge. I stopped at the edge of Grenadier Pond. Yelping and barking, Whisky raced into the darkness.”

My father paused. I could feel him wondering if he should con­tinue, but we both knew there was no turning back.

“‘Larry?’ I called ‘Larry?’ A feeble voice answered. ‘Pa?’ As my eyes adjusted to the moonlight, I saw Larry a few yards from shore, par­tially submerged in a pool of water, clinging to the edge of the cracking ice. ‘Larry. Hang on!’ I got down on my belly and inched towards him as the ice creaked … But it held and I got close enough to slide my rifle towards your dad. ‘Grab hold,’ I said. ‘When I pull, move forward, slowly.’”

And that’s just what I did. Grabbed hold and moved forward, slowly.

“The wind stung my face. I began to tremble with fear as I pulled your father towards me, pausing whenever the ice groaned. And then he was free.”

I could sense the kids look over at me on the couch.

“I wrapped Larry in my arms as if he were a fragile Christmas gift. Tears were frozen on his red cheeks. His entire body convulsed. But he still managed to stutter: ‘Wh-Wh-whisky?’

“Except for the howling wind and the creaking ice, there was si­lence—the absence of Whisky’s bark. With only a hug for an answer, I carried my son away from the watery grave into which Whisky had plunged.”

A log in the fireplace shifted, startling everybody. Even Cham­pagne jerked his head. “And that, my dear boys,” my father said, “was the Winter of Whisky.”

Toby and Jeremy sniffled. Champagne licked Toby’s hand. I got up off the couch, gathered empty mugs and took them into the kitchen, where I could wipe my eyes unnoticed.

My father may have been working in the den when Whisky broke into the house, but he had also been drinking. I can still recall the pun­gent odour of alcohol on his breath as he held me in his arms and carried me away from Grenadier Pond.

After he got me home and into warm blankets, tucked in bed be­side my mother, he went back to the pond to look for Whisky. But he returned empty-handed.

Somehow the Winter of Whisky sobered up my father. He not only dragged me out of the frigid waters that night but he also saved himself. He nursed Ma back to health and helped soothe my sadness over the loss of Whisky. He even started doing the family banking.

I hadn’t skated on the pond since.

“So,” I could hear Dad say as he opened the fireplace screen and poked at a log, “who’s up to another skate?”

“Can we skate on the really frozen ice again, Grandpa?” asked Toby.

“I don’t see why not.”

When I returned to the living room, the kids were shuffling about, putting coats and mittens back on.

“I have an old pair of size tens in the basement,” my dad said. “They should fit you just fine.”

I shrugged, noncommittally. But headed for the basement stairs.

A short while later, I stood at the edge of the pond watching Dad, Toby and Jeremy sail across the ice. A light wind blew puffs of snow in halos around their blades. Then, wearing my dad’s old skates, I took an awkward step forward and buried the ghost of Whisky forever beneath the frozen surface of Grenadier Pond.