What is a good life?

Recent deaths compel me to consider this question.  My father passed away in July.  His health was failing and in a brave attempt to battle cancer he died the evening of his first chemotherapy session.   Did he have a good life?  Did he make his mark?  What is his legacy?  Were other people affected by him?   I could ask the same of myself.    At his funeral, we all spoke of his humour and resourcefulness, his love for his family and his skills with a tool box.

As the oldest child, I had the most vivid memory of our uprooting from England when I was nine.  Postwar UK was economically depressed.  Ration coupons were still being used up to the mid 1950s.  Wages were low, opportunities hard to come by.  My dad worked as a motorcycle messenger for the post office, painted houses, sold insurance door to door, eventually went to work as a clerk in the payroll office of Ford Motor Co. Prospects were few.

And so it was, one September, that our neighbours across the back fence, the Cappers, were visited by their son Derek and his wife Maureen.  Derek and Maureen had emigrated to Canada the year before and were home for a visit.  Derek told stories of their life in Canada, of new opportunities to make a good life.  That was enough for my father.  Two months later, we were on board the SS Empress of Britain, on our voyage to Canada.  My mom and dad sold everything, put all our valuables in two steamer trunks and took a chance on a new life.

When I was nearly ten
We packed up for another land
He said goodbye to the old east end
In cold November, waved our hands

Seven days, roaming the decks
He was heading for Canada step by step
My sister posed, red shoes and curls
With my brother and me they crossed the world

Sailed upriver from the sea
Icebergs, grey skies, a mystery
Rode the train from Montreal
Two steamer trunks and that was all

We were new kids with English accents
Wool pants and bomber jackets
That first Christmas alone
Mom cried, a long way from home

It might have been Australia or New Zealand
Or somewhere in the suburbs
It was a promise that he made
Pulling up roots, starting from nothing
Pulling up roots, starting from nothing