The Foster Home Dad
If there was a word to describe my Father that word would be enthusiasm. As a little girl I remember watching him “hold court.” He was always the largest person in the room-because of his attitude and zest for life. The word Can’t is not in my Father’s dictionary.
He goes the extra mile in almost everything he does from researching vehicles or vacations to packing the car for our annual holidays up north. Going the extra mile was his model for life.
If we ever wanted Dad’s attention which we did all the time we’d ask him the meaning of a word. Dad would stop, pivot and turn all his attention towards us and describe in lengthy detail what the word means.
My Father’s name is Warren Diwell and he’s 84 years old. He grew up in foster homes with his 2 younger sisters Barb and Bev. His parents divorced when divorce wasn’t a thing. His father Bernard Diwell soon remarried and purchased a big two storey home, but the stepmother Margaret didn’t want any kids. My Grandmother, Alice, had no money to look after them.
The kids stayed together and lived in multiple homes throughout their childhood. Some were better than others.
Too often they’d come home after school to find their belongings packed in a brown grocery bag sitting on the front porch. Nobody ever explained why-it was just time to go. They left never knowing what they did wrong. My Dad remembers that dreaded feeling of uncertainty because they never knew what the next house would be like.
My Father and his sisters were outsiders of the family. Often to help with the farm and often just extra money for the foster families. The weren’t allowed to have butter and jam on their toast however their own kids got to have both. All 3 had to share bath water. There wasn’t enough. At one house he forgot to feed the baby rabbits and when he came home they were drowned.
He often tried to visit his Dad who lived in the same town. He would round the block a few times to get up enough nerve to knock on the door. The stepmother would answer and tell my father that his dad was sleeping. On occasion when she did let him come in he was told that he could only stay for 10 minutes. This certainly wasn’t long enough to prove to his Father that they were great kids that deserved to be living in the house with them or to hear those sweet words that he always always always longed to hear from his Father. I’m proud of you.
Once he saw his father whiz by to the local fishing hole. He ran into the house to grab his fishing rod certain his father would come back for him. He waited all day in the driveway hoping his Dad would stop in on his way back, but he never did.
By the grace of God and my Mother’s forgiving heart, we got to know Grandma Diwell. I loved my Grandmother. She got a kick out of us. She was happy-go-lucky and taught us every card game we know how to play. Mom would invite Grandma to visit once or twice a year from Hamilton where she lived in a one-bedroom apartment above a fish and chips takeout place for 30 years. We’d pick her up from the Greyhound bus station with her big blue suitcase and she’d stay for a week. There were arguments and cross words spoken between my dad and her during these visits but not too many that I recall. I think they understood each other’s position.
I only met my Grandfather once. We sat on the couch in their home and were statues basically. My Father’s prized possessions. The silence was awkward. We didn’t stay long.
My Mom said Bernard must have died from a guilty conscience because there was nothing medically wrong with him. He gave up his will to live after his wife passed away from a massive heart attack. He had to face his 3 children taking care of him at his bedside who he’d abandoned many years before.
Dad worked from the time he was 12 years old often for free until they agreed to pay him. He had several jobs and a few businesses. His work ethic drove him up the ranks into upper management at CP Rail where he trained over 200 locomotive engineers and is still the most respected manager in London that CP Rail has ever had.
Warren has been married to my Mother Elaine for 60 years. As he jokingly says you only get 25 years for murder. He drove back and forth to London every weekend for 4 years when he was dating my Mom. They met on a blind date through my Mom’s cousin Millie and Ted, Dad’s good friend. My parents travelled all over the world together including all 52 states. When we were kids he rented a brand-new Winnebago and took my mom, sisters and I on a month-long vacation to the Rocky Mountains. He said no one should die without seeing the Rocky Mountains. He’s been out there several times.
Everyone has a funny story about my Father. One of my favourite memories was up at Gallimere. We were there to fix a leaky pipe underneath the cottage. He’d put cardboard down over top of the spring-mud in this small crawl space and had his safety glasses on and his torch in hand. Dad was probably in his 60’s and just recently diagnosed with angina and on blood pressure meds etc. Mom was there too. “What’s that for?” mom asked…..He had tied a garden hose around his ankle. He told us in case he ran into trouble we were to yank him out using the hose. When I heard that I called the whole thing off and grabbed the torch out of his hands. He ran after me chasing me around the trees. We were laughing the whole time.
There are people who have endured horrific circumstances who are kind, generous and full of life just as there are bitter and resentful people who have been nurtured and well taken care of. As Zig Ziglar says, “We are not given a good life or a bad life we are given a life. It’s up to us to make it good or bad.”
People tend to blame their childhoods for everything that is wrong with their life. My Father took lemons and made lemonade. Having endured those hardships growing up made my Father the man that he is. An exceptional man who’s had an exceptional life.
He’s someone I’m proud to call “Dad”.
He goes the extra mile in almost everything he does from researching vehicles or vacations to packing the car for our annual holidays up north. Going the extra mile was his model for life.
If we ever wanted Dad’s attention which we did all the time we’d ask him the meaning of a word. Dad would stop, pivot and turn all his attention towards us and describe in lengthy detail what the word means.
My Father’s name is Warren Diwell and he’s 84 years old. He grew up in foster homes with his 2 younger sisters Barb and Bev. His parents divorced when divorce wasn’t a thing. His father Bernard Diwell soon remarried and purchased a big two storey home, but the stepmother Margaret didn’t want any kids. My Grandmother, Alice, had no money to look after them.
The kids stayed together and lived in multiple homes throughout their childhood. Some were better than others.
Too often they’d come home after school to find their belongings packed in a brown grocery bag sitting on the front porch. Nobody ever explained why-it was just time to go. They left never knowing what they did wrong. My Dad remembers that dreaded feeling of uncertainty because they never knew what the next house would be like.
My Father and his sisters were outsiders of the family. Often to help with the farm and often just extra money for the foster families. The weren’t allowed to have butter and jam on their toast however their own kids got to have both. All 3 had to share bath water. There wasn’t enough. At one house he forgot to feed the baby rabbits and when he came home they were drowned.
He often tried to visit his Dad who lived in the same town. He would round the block a few times to get up enough nerve to knock on the door. The stepmother would answer and tell my father that his dad was sleeping. On occasion when she did let him come in he was told that he could only stay for 10 minutes. This certainly wasn’t long enough to prove to his Father that they were great kids that deserved to be living in the house with them or to hear those sweet words that he always always always longed to hear from his Father. I’m proud of you.
Once he saw his father whiz by to the local fishing hole. He ran into the house to grab his fishing rod certain his father would come back for him. He waited all day in the driveway hoping his Dad would stop in on his way back, but he never did.
By the grace of God and my Mother’s forgiving heart, we got to know Grandma Diwell. I loved my Grandmother. She got a kick out of us. She was happy-go-lucky and taught us every card game we know how to play. Mom would invite Grandma to visit once or twice a year from Hamilton where she lived in a one-bedroom apartment above a fish and chips takeout place for 30 years. We’d pick her up from the Greyhound bus station with her big blue suitcase and she’d stay for a week. There were arguments and cross words spoken between my dad and her during these visits but not too many that I recall. I think they understood each other’s position.
I only met my Grandfather once. We sat on the couch in their home and were statues basically. My Father’s prized possessions. The silence was awkward. We didn’t stay long.
My Mom said Bernard must have died from a guilty conscience because there was nothing medically wrong with him. He gave up his will to live after his wife passed away from a massive heart attack. He had to face his 3 children taking care of him at his bedside who he’d abandoned many years before.
Dad worked from the time he was 12 years old often for free until they agreed to pay him. He had several jobs and a few businesses. His work ethic drove him up the ranks into upper management at CP Rail where he trained over 200 locomotive engineers and is still the most respected manager in London that CP Rail has ever had.
Warren has been married to my Mother Elaine for 60 years. As he jokingly says you only get 25 years for murder. He drove back and forth to London every weekend for 4 years when he was dating my Mom. They met on a blind date through my Mom’s cousin Millie and Ted, Dad’s good friend. My parents travelled all over the world together including all 52 states. When we were kids he rented a brand-new Winnebago and took my mom, sisters and I on a month-long vacation to the Rocky Mountains. He said no one should die without seeing the Rocky Mountains. He’s been out there several times.
Everyone has a funny story about my Father. One of my favourite memories was up at Gallimere. We were there to fix a leaky pipe underneath the cottage. He’d put cardboard down over top of the spring-mud in this small crawl space and had his safety glasses on and his torch in hand. Dad was probably in his 60’s and just recently diagnosed with angina and on blood pressure meds etc. Mom was there too. “What’s that for?” mom asked…..He had tied a garden hose around his ankle. He told us in case he ran into trouble we were to yank him out using the hose. When I heard that I called the whole thing off and grabbed the torch out of his hands. He ran after me chasing me around the trees. We were laughing the whole time.
There are people who have endured horrific circumstances who are kind, generous and full of life just as there are bitter and resentful people who have been nurtured and well taken care of. As Zig Ziglar says, “We are not given a good life or a bad life we are given a life. It’s up to us to make it good or bad.”
People tend to blame their childhoods for everything that is wrong with their life. My Father took lemons and made lemonade. Having endured those hardships growing up made my Father the man that he is. An exceptional man who’s had an exceptional life.
He’s someone I’m proud to call “Dad”.
I am chocked up ... has he read this?
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