I was born in Vancouver in 1960 at the St. Paul’s Hospital, the second daughter of Velma and Walter Strehlen.
My father, Walter, was too busy working to attend. My mother was scheduled for a cesarean section, the birth of my sister in 1958 almost killed them both, and the doctors weren’t taking any chances. We lived in the British Properties at the time as my father was an up and coming star in the restaurant industry, and worked at the elite restaurants in West Vancouver.
Rags to Riches
My father was born in 1930 Hamburg Germany to a wealthy family, pampered with all the luxuries including his own personal butler. I never knew him; my mother divorced when I was 5, and he disappeared from my life; so I rely on my mother’s scant information. She claimed his full name was Walter Von der Osten, Sachen, Streletsky, Strehlen. I have no way to corroborate this, but it sounds impressive.
My paternal grandfather was a high ranking military man, and rumoured to be an SS officer. My grandmother, Hedwig, was wealthy and Jewish, which may have been the reason my father hated her. Walter was six years old when Hitler came to power; his life began as a Nazi. He was a soldier in WW2, survived, and came to Canada in 1948, penniless and with little English, leaving his family and country forever.
The New World
His first job was as a dishwasher at the White Lunch at 124 W. Hastings, a fitting employer for a racist Nazi, and he worked his way up to become head maitre d’ at the Bayshore Inn before divorcing my mother in 1965.
He moved to Vernon, was remarried to a wealthy widow, and started his restaurant, The Country Squire in Naramata. This became a destination restaurant, featured in Gourmet Magazine and frequented by luminaries such as Pierre Berton. My father had become a self made man, a poor immigrant who made millions, and acquired notoriety by the age of 40. He lived in a mansion on a hill with a shiny Mercedes Benz.
Money doesn’t buy happiness
My father was not satisfied, with anything, ever. I guess that was his downfall. He wanted to start a chain of restaurants featuring better quality dishes than McDonalds, much like today’s Earl’s or Cactus Club. It really was a good idea, so he sold The Country Squire in 1980 and started with two restaurants. He named his brain child, Jamieson Bookers, which featured an in-house bakery and gourmet dishes like escargot.
I travelled to Vernon one summer around 1982, and he invited me to lunch in his restaurant at the Vernon Village Green Mall. It was the first time I met with my father since 1966. We spent the afternoon together, he didn’t ask any questions of me, but rather used me as a sounding board. He complained about everyone and everything, peppering his speech with expletives, I’d never heard a mouth like his. I visited his beautiful house, and met his beautiful wife, it really was a once in a lifetime experience for me. He showed me his photography and talked about escaping his stresses by riding his motorcycle into the hills with his camera. He was quite a good photographer, but a really nasty person.
Like I said, he had no interest in me, it was the first time he met me and he didn’t care to get to know me. I was not surprised, nor was I hurt, as I expected there was a reason, and I soon found out. He was angry and bitter, no sense of humour, no heart of kindness. I met my half brother Scott, who was around 14. Our father had not spoken to him for two years, for some forgotten transgression. My father had no love for anyone, even for himself.
His new venture was fraught with problems. His partners embezzled funds and ultimately, his dream was over and his wealth and income were in jeopardy, he was looking at Chapter 11.
In 1985, my father suffered a major stroke. Of course, being a smoker didn’t help, but the stresses of losing his business probably added to it. He was discharged and sent home, wheelchair bound and paralyzed on one side. A few days later, on Father’s Day 1986, while his family was out, he managed to load his gun and shoot himself to death.
Hard lessons
Years later, I was purchasing something at Radio Shack in Kitsilano. The man at the counter recognized my last name, and asked if my father was named Walter. He went on to explain he had worked briefly for him at the restaurant in Vernon. I encouraged him to talk and he went on to say what a terrible boss my father was; worst ever. It’s a Small World after all.
Naturally, my lack of a father has had an effect on me, and I obviously have Daddy issues. Constantly striving to prove myself as worthy, always thinking my art is never good enough, I struggle not to compare myself to other artists. My belief is that Art is a Man’s domain and I’ll never cut it as a female. I sacrifice myself to men in my life who are artists, and waste my time trying to promote their art, spending thousands of dollars and years of my life. I have sacrificed my art for theirs, to please “daddy”. I am easily convinced that my needs are unimportant and I have no value. I have accepted crumbs when I deserve better. I have wasted my time trying to please and support others, instead of making art.
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