Sometime in the middle of the 1930s my dad went to work in the pit.

He was never precise

about the exact date. Every time Id ask him when he started mining coal, hed just say: a long
time ago. It most certainly was by the time I came along. He retired when I was five or six years
old, becoming an improbable stay-at-home dad through his late 50s and for his entire 60s.
Lucky for me, Charlie Butts was not one of the 17 people killed in 1936, nor among the 32 who
died in 1937. During the 40 years my dad worked, 726 people drew their last breath deep underground in Nova Scotia, or due of mortal injuries sustained there. Just two of those 40 years
two of his last, 1975 and 1977 saw no fatalities. The bloodiest year was 1956, the year of
the Springhill catastrophe, when 55 men were killed1.
The most tragic year in my lifetime was 1979. I was in Grade 3 when Number 26 Colliery exploded in late February. Twelve men were killed that awful, monstrous day. Five of them had
kids in Bridgeport School, three of whom were in my class. Another was married to one of our
teachers. Had he not recently retired, there is little doubt dad would have been on that shift, with
all those men from his neighbourhood. My mom was a nurse at Number 26. She was called in,
as were all available medical personnel. She was above ground, some distance from the horror
show below.
I document this not to incite sympathy. Quite the opposite. For my dads generation, its just the
way it was. Its hard to imagine perhaps impossible for the great majority of us with jobs
that keep us safely tucked away from the faintest chance of physical harm, but death at work
was an omnipresent possibility for Charlie. He had been near it, had seen it happen. It was often
sudden and usually unspeakably gruesome. Causes of death included: Drilled into an explosive
socket. Fell down a mine shaft Crushed by machinery Broken cable on riding rake2 Suffocation Explosion. He lost countless friends among those 726 people. I once asked him how
many and he said:
I stopped counting in the 50s.
I assumed he meant the 1950s. After spending several hours searching the Nova Scotia database of mining fatalities, Im not so sure.
Different people dealt with this set of circumstances in different ways. Many couldnt deal with
them at all. The demon alcohol, as the priests called it, haunted so many families in Glace Bay
that its hard to believe a true mining fatality account wouldnt produce a multiple of the official
number. It was doubtless a reaction to this that led Charlie (and his brother Eddie) to take the
temperance oath in the 1930s. Despite being a Mass-a-Day Catholic3, dad never tasted alcohol.
Never. Not as a sacrament, not at his wedding, not after work with his friends, not during any of
1

All of this has been meticulously documented by the Nova Scotia government, back to 1836.
You can find a searchable database here:
http://novascotia.ca/archives/virtual/meninmines/fatalities.asp?Language=English. In total 2,584
people are known to have died in Nova Scotia mines, though that number surely underestimates the true total. Record keeping was poor prior to 1866. Only 6 people are included in the
database before then, which is, to say the least, improbable.
2
Look up what that means. Shudder.
3
And I mean every day, plus Stations during Lent, a ritual he would subject his kids to each
year, and about which we would begin to get the creeping dreads shortly after Christmas.

the many moments when his kids (especially yours truly) drove him completely, utterly, 100%
bananas.
Dont get me wrong. He wasnt preachy: about booze or religion. He loved to see people have a
grand time, especially at his kitchen table over legendary, marathon games of cribbage or his
beloved Tarabish4. I suspect his lively mathematical mind deduced the causal relationship between alcohol consumption and card-playing proficiency early in life. In cards as in life, it pays to
be a teetotaller after midnight. He never lectured us about it (or about much else), but we knew
how he felt by his actions. His sister, Peggy Butts, whom I loved and admired immeasurably5,
once said to me:
What you say is what you want other people to think of you. What you do is who you are.
As she did often, Sr Peggy seemed to be acting as dads interpreter. It captured perfectly who
he was.
The first thing I think of when I think of dad is that he was happy. He had plenty of excuses not
to be. He had a world-class mind, but was limited by the horizon of a depression era coal mining
town. He spent four decades in the pit, most of the time in working conditions that would now be
charitably described as developing world. He lost his dad and spent many, many years caring
for his mom. He buried every one of his 5 siblings. He didnt leave Cape Breton until he made a
16 hour trip to exotic Halifax in his late 20s. He married intriguingly late at 38, which for his generation of devout Catholics meant an, ahem, solitary couple of decades post-adolescence6.
Once married, mom and dad wasted little time. They had three boys in rapid succession, the
first two were Irish twins (March 1959/Feb 1960) and the third was born just two years later. His
daughter, my sainted sister (inevitably named Mary), came 5 years after that in 1967. Then, at
the age of 54 (!), he had to do it all over again when I came along in 1971. Depending on my
sonly performance, I was characterized as: a) a great blessing from Jesus b) a failed attempt to
provide a sister for my sister or c) the late in life product of the Catholic approach to birth control. The last seems most probable.
When I was at WWF, I had the honour of working with and getting to know Scott Niedermayer,
the Hall of Fame hockey player. He once said this to me about unhappy people: My experience
is if youre looking for a reason to be unhappy, youre going to find it. Im not sure Ive ever
heard anything wiser. My dad never looked for a reason to be unhappy, though he had plenty in
close proximity. It was almost as if he didnt see the point. It was a waste of his time and energy.
His faith played a major role in this of course. Charlie was the most devout Catholic Ive ever
known, but not in the way you probably picture when I say that. You tell people about an Irish
Catholic Cape Breton coal miner and it conjures a certain image, likely not my fathers. He took
the church seriously, but not too seriously. He was always wary of zealots, who more often than
not could be found among the periodic converts who would show up in a flush of conspicuously
4

If youre from Cape Breton or an aficionado of things Cape Breton you know what that means.
If not, thats a whole other essay.
5
Also a whole other essay.
6
I strongly suspect alcohol wasnt the only thing covered by his temperance oath. In fact, the
late date of his marriage often made me think he came within a hairs breadth of the priesthood,
a suggestion he would always make fun of but never fully deny, now that I think about it.

loud and pious devotion at our church. He once said to me: Only people who didnt grow up in
the Catholic church can take it that seriously.
Amen to that.
Dad loved to laugh. He loved to hear other people laugh and make other people laugh. He had
a tight rotation of 15 or so of the corniest jokes imaginable, which hed repeat ad nauseum. Everyone who heard them laughed no matter how many times theyd heard them before, not because they were funny (they were Catskills era and uneven at best), but because his joy was
infectious. People wanted him to be happy because he made them happy. They indulged him,
but never in a patronizing way. Dads Catholic devotion did not prevent him from telling a salty
joke in church more and more loudly, and with increasingly hilarious results as his hearing
diminished over the years. Nonetheless, at the end of his life, he was the only person in Immaculate Conception parish who went home with a key to the church, other than the priest and the
janitor. We buried him with it.
Dad was also calm. Preternaturally calm7. Throughout my childhood we had at least one widowed relative (aunts, grandmothers, etc) living with us. The activity level at 388 Main street oscillated between your garden variety anthill at the low-end all the way up to a WW2 troop
movement. He maintained his even temperament throughout8. If things got too rambunctious,
hed retreat to the living room. Hed read9 or do something else in silence, which hed periodically punctuate with his favourite admonition:
Could ya keep it down to a dull roar out there?
When I picture him, I most often see him standing, with his right foot on the cast-iron radiator in
our living-room, watching Bridgeport through a big picture window. What his thoughts were in
those long moments is anyones guess, but they were clearly restorative. Many of us have a
glass of something to relax. Dad looked at things. Closely. Repeatedly. For and over long periods of time. From that window he could see his brothers house, his neighbours, his kids, his
church, his street, the graveyard and the ocean. It helped him keep perspective and pay attention.
He was happy and calm, but more than anything he was kind. To everyone: his parents, siblings, wife, kids, grandkids (especially his grandkids), friends, colleagues, strangers, church and
town. Other than a phone with bigger buttons as his eyesight faded and the odd good steak, I
dont really remember dad ever asking anyone for anything10, not for himself anyway. He
wouldnt hesitate to tell us what mom really wanted for Christmas, or remind us that Aunt Peggys favourite drink was Crown Royal, or later to set aside some of our paycheques for charity.
Its a peculiar consequence of having such a man as a father that I have very few material
7

My siblings might disagree with that, as they were raised by a younger and therefore probably
less certain and more irritable Charlie Butts. But for me, he was a different animal.
8
Which is not to say he didnt avail himself of the then more culturally-acceptable forms of discipline at parents disposal. Buddy could swing a belt. Believe me.
9
Dad was an omnivorous reader. He read everything from novels of every imaginable kind and
quality, to biographies of his favourite Prime Ministers and Presidents, to (Im not joking) the National Enquirer and its competitors, which he affectionately called my papers.
10
Mom might dispute this.

things to remind me of him. My Aunts favourite coffee mug (featuring her beloved Montreal Expos logo) pretty much covers them both.
Its not his generosity with things that mattered though. It was his generosity of spirit. He was
the rare kind of person who liked nothing more than to help a guy be the best version of himself.
If you were one of his kids, it was an expectation more than an offer. And we knew it. Its hard to
describe, but there was no better motivation for me in life than the idea Id let my father down.
Yet somehow this idea presented itself not as fear or anxiety or stress, but as love. I dont quite
know how he did it, but if you could bottle and sell it youd be a gazillionaire.
People are astounded when I tell them my dad worked where he did, started when he started,
yet lived as long as he lived. He thought the secret to his longevity was a combination of the
Himalayan pile of tea he drank and his daily breakfast of oranges and All Bran. I used to think it
was because he never got a drivers license and therefore walked every where, even when it
ached. And most of the time it did.
These days I think it was this temperament Im trying hard to describe. He didnt want to die.
Nobody does. But more than anyone else Ive ever met, he wasnt afraid of it. He also had this
unique conviction that it wasnt in his hands. He spent so much time around it, saw it so often,
that he developed a deep awareness that death was capricious. He had this saying, which I
heard so many times I never really thought about what it meant: You live till you die. And not a
minute longer. Now that hes gone, it says to me that life is precious because it ends. How and
when is likely out of your hands, and what you do with the time you have is all that matters.
I could tell many stories about Charlie Butts, but here are two of my favourites. They capture the
point Im trying to make much better than I can describe it.
I was working in Dalton McGuintys office. He was then Leader of the Opposition at Queens
Park. It was late 2002. We had been working late on the election platform, on the off chance the
Conservatives would call an early election.11 I was tired and cranky and more than a little selfpitying. I called home to whinge at my parents. The conversation went something like this:
Dad: Hows she going?
Me: Im tired. All I do these days is work. I never see Jodi. Havent seen my friends in weeks. Its
exhausting.
Dad: Well, sorry to hear that. You have to make time. Its always hard to make time.
Me: I know. Its just very hard.
Dad: Youll figure it out.
It was a pretty run of the mill chat. I thought little of it at the time. Then, about two weeks later, a
manilla envelope arrived in the mail, addressed to me in my dads familiar hen-scratch. This was
unusual. My mom wrote all the letters. Once in a while dad would append a few words in short
postscript, but I dont recall receiving another one direct from him alone. The manilla envelope
added to the intrigue.
This was TTBK (The Time Before Kids), a magical period future parents never really appreciate
until it passes. Of course, we love them dearly, etc etc. Anyway, Jodi and I were living in a small
condo on Bay Street. She was equally busy, if not more so, building a law practice. I remember
11

Some things dont change.

thinking how odd it was to get such a thing, so much so that I was anxious when I opened it.
Inside was a picture. If youve ever been to the Miners Museum in Glace Bay, you know it. They
built a replica of the entrance to the pit. Theres a pair of overalls hanging on the wall, some
tools, a helmet, a light and a sign. This is what the sign says:
Your wife and kids expect you home tonight. Dont dissappoint (sic) them. Be careful.
A note was attached to the back, again in my dads shaky octogenarian scrawl. It was simple
and vivid and wise and unforgettable, perhaps the best gift Ive ever received. It said:
I walked by this goddamn sign every day for 40 years so you wouldnt have to. Stop complaining.
Thereafter I resolved that whenever a kind friend or colleague offers good natured sympathy
about how busy I am or much time I spend away from my kids, I would think of my dad and say:
It beats mining coal. It was a good idea, however imperfectly Ive executed it.
The second story happens earlier, and its very Cape Breton. It was my birthday, and my girlfriend decided a pint of Jack Daniels would be a fine (if age-inappropriate) gift. Dont blame her.
I probably asked for it. It was consumed, mercifully, without incident. In a brain freeze for the
ages, I decided to keep the empty bottle as a souvenir, and hid it away in my bedroom somewhere.
The fun happened a couple of months later.
My parents kitchen was one of Cape Bretons best classrooms and this was the finest lesson I
ever learned in it. Sister Peggy taught political science at the University College of Cape Breton
for most of my childhood and teen years. She came out to Glace Bay (we grew up in the same
house) every day for lunch. Most days, dad would make a simple meal for the three of us or
four when mom wasnt working dayshift. We talked about whatever was going on at the time.
Peggy would quiz me about school or the Habs or the last book shed brought me to read. These were normally very good moments.
Not on this day. Mom was working night shift (3pm-11pm), so she was home. I walked into the
kitchen as usual and sat down in my regular seat, almost surrounded. Thats when I saw it, in
the middle of the table, equidistant from each of us: the empty Jack Daniels bottle. Its hard to
describe what I felt at that moment other than to say every fluid in my body threatened to make
a mad rush for the nearest exit. I looked around the table, girded myself and waited a excruciating few beats for someone to say something.
Nobody said anything about it. For an hour. My parents and my Aunt carried on as if everything
were normal. I cant remember a single word said by anyone at that evil little lunch, but none of
it even remotely pertained to the bottle. No sly asides or sarcasm. No inferences or parables.
NOTHING. At times I began to think I was hallucinating. The short square bottle sat there like a
taunt, for sixty freaking minutes. Felony sentences have passed more quickly.
I dont know who found that bottle or when they found it. I dont know how many weeks of sinister planning went into that infernal lesson. But they thought it through. They even placed the
bottle so the label faced my chair. This was a nice touch. It reminded me that they think of everything, even the little details. The only thing Im really sure of is it was my dads idea. It had to
be, It had him written all over it.

He might have been just old and tired, but I prefer to think Charlie learned from experience the
limits of more conventional forms of parental discipline. We spent a lot of time together, and he
paid attention. Its a clich to say parents know you better than you know yourself, but so what?
Call the clich police. It was absolutely true, and if I had any doubts they vanished forever on
the way back to St Mikes that afternoon.
Thats the point. Dad cared enough to spend the most precious resources he had: his time, his
mind, his imagination and most important his heart. Whoever first turned the phrase his
hearts not in it did not have Charlie Willie Butts in mind. His heart was in it like nobodys business, especially when it came to his kids.
It mattered, especially to me. It sounds sort of macabre, but when your father turns 70 the year
you turn 16, you think about him dying. A lot. Thats not to say those intimations of dads mortality kept me from being a complete shithead much of the time between age 12 and 16, with sporadic, acute relapses in later years. They didnt. But even in our worst moments I always understood that my days with him were numbered. If someone had told me on 13 December 1987
that Id have my dad for another 22.5 years Id have been overwhelmed with relief and joy. But
Im glad nobody did. If wed known we had so much time, we might not have had the relationship we had. He might not have paid such close attention. I might have been even more careless than I too often was.
Losing a parent sucks arse, no matter the circumstances. There are many kinds of heartbreak in
life, but that one is a special. Thank God you only have to go through it twice. Dads death was
as good as it gets. I wrote to friends at the time that he passed away at home, the only one he
has ever known, next to the woman he loved, in his own bed, on Cape Breton Island. May we all
be so lucky. Despite his legendary good humour and forbearance, the last while had been difficult. He has the peace that he richly deserves.
Peace is the right word. He earned it. He gave it freely as a gift. He exuded it. We all know people whose parents die leaving issues unresolved, feelings unexpressed, words unsaid. Not so
for me. I knew exactly how my father felt about me, because he showed it in the ways that really, really count, every day our lives overlapped. He loved me as much and as well as one human being could possibly love another. I loved him at least as much, if not so well at times. I will
likely never be the father or husband or brother or friend that he was, but thats on me. It sure
isnt for lack of a good example.
Enjoy your parents. Life is short, even when it is long.
Happy birthday, dad. I miss you all the time.