Remembering Harold Flanagan 1928

By Barb Young

(Joseph) Harold Flanagan was born on January 17, 1928, in an old, red brick farmhouse on a knoll just north of Erinsville. A simple farm life would be in store for Harold and his younger brother, Clifford. With their mother, Jean, or “Ma” as the boys affectionately called her, and their father, Jack, they worked their 200-acre farm raising cattle, pigs, sheep, chickens, and horses amidst the stoney fields of Sheffield Township. And they did it with the same passion and determination as the generations of Flanagans who had worked the farm before them.

As a child, Harold wasn’t crazy about school, but according to Clifford, he didn’t mind it either. Admittedly, Clifford says, “Harold was good at spelling, a lot better than me.” Harold went on to finish one year of high school before he had to quit because the teacher lacked the qualifications to take him any higher. No worries. Harold was happy to give up the school thing and focus full time on farming.

As a farmhand, Cliff says Harold was about as dependable as they came. He fed the livestock, cleaned the stables, and brought the milk to the house to be separated. “He did it right by the clock,” Cliff remembers. There were other jobs he took on, like picking wild berries for his ma’s pies. On the subject of pies, Cliff joked, “Ma liked Harold the best, and if there was one piece of pie left, he got it.”

Life on the farm wasn’t all work, though their father was strict about not slacking off until the work was done. By evening, the atmosphere had changed considerably. Neighbours could be seen strolling down the dirt road from opposite directions to gather at the Flanaganʼs. It was a welcoming place, and everyone knew it. They came most every night, some to play cards - euchre and King Pedro, others only wanted to gather in front of the radio (there were few radios in the neighbourhood) and listen to the Grand Ole Opry. Harold liked to join in for all of it. He liked the cards, and he especially liked the music. They would stay till 11:00 or 12:00, especially during the winter, when the morning chores could be postponed till 7:00 or even a little later.

On special occasions, the same folks would gather at the Flanaganʼs for real parties with fiddle players (lots of them), whiskey (none for Harold), and dancing. Clifford, Jimmy, Wilfred, Johnny, and Jerry would rosin up the bows and let the tunes fly so people could get up and shake a leg on the old hardwood floors - Harold wasn’t a dancer, but he loved to tap his toe to the music, especially when Jimmy Turcotte played. “He was the best,” says Cliff.

As the years went by, times changed. Folks in the Flanagan neighbourhood got their own radios, and the gatherings at the Flanagan farm fizzled out. Jack passed away at 77, leaving Harold, 38, and Cliff, 35, to farm without him. There was no doubt they knew how to do it, just like their two old work horses, Tony and Sandy. For twenty years, they kept at it, and with their strict father gone, something new started to develop in Harold’s daily routine. Between chores, Harold was free to do as he pleased, and what pleased him was to become a traveling man. Harold never drove, but that didn’t stop him. He wanted to be with the crowds, just hanging out, smiling, and visiting; the more, the merrier it seemed. After morning chores, he’d head out to the highway, stick his thumb out, and hope for the best. He always had a destination in mind, with his favourites being the auction sales, county fairs, livestock sales barns, and hockey arenas.

While there are no statistics to prove it, I think we would be hard-pressed to find a more successful hitchhiker in Canada than Harold Flanagan. Perhaps it was his kind, gentle spirit and infectious

smile that drew people to the side of the road to pick him up. But maybe, just maybe, it was more than that. In this crazy world we live in, where it is no longer safe to do such a simple, good deed as pick up a hitchhiker, but, where the core of our humanity still cries out to many of us to do a good deed whenever we can, there stood Harold, waving and smiling. He was more than happy to climb into the back seat and give us that little bit of padding for our souls. He got picked up and taken wherever he wanted to go - Marmora, Belleville, Norwood (yes, up near Peterborough), Denbigh, or Hoard’s Station to the sales barn. He got rides home, too, and, all the while, rarely got off his schedule.

Many people just stopped and took Harold where he wanted to go, even if they weren’t intending to go in his direction. In all due respect, Harold’s little transportation system worked very well, but it had its limits. So, when Harold suggested to Cliff that he thought he’d go to Toronto, Cliff responded quite firmly, “No, Harold. You stay away from there. It ain’t like here.”

Eventually, Clifford moved away, the farming stopped, and their ma got old and weak. So, Harold the farmer became Harold the caregiver. “He took awful good care of Ma,” Cliff recalls. After she passed away, Harold remained alone on the farm but spent most of his daylight hours traveling to his favourite places and events. He was known and respected by just about everyone within a 50-mile radius.

Fresh air, regular exercise, and a happy disposition weren’t enough to make Harold immune to the adverse effects of growing old. Glaucoma robbed him of most of his vision and left him almost blind for the last couple of years of his life. I guess if you think about it, what happened next could have been predicted. Haroldʼs friend-base expanded where necessary, and everyone did a little more on his behalf to help him maintain the only way of life he knew and wanted. There were so many helpers - Wayne and his co-workers in No Frills who would guide him around the store to find his groceries, Lora at the Lottery Kiosk in the mall who would happily take time out of her job on a regular basis to read the papers to him, the ones he could no longer read for himself, the bank tellers in CIBC whose services to Harold could not always be measured in dollars and cents, Susan and her co-workers at SOS, who exemplified what outreach services for seniors in need really entail, Cliff, the brother he loved dearly, who was his best friend, who he came to first, and who was always there for him, Norma, the kind, next-door-neighbour who guided him through his cataract operation, Eleanor, who was there when Harold needed her most, like in the middle of the night when he needed to get to the hospital, or during the final days of his life, when she made sure he was not alone at the hospital, the taxi drivers who drove Harold right up to the door and carried in his parcels, and Robin, his most recent special friend, who went out of her way to provide rides for him, see that he got his eye drops, and who gave him hugs.

Congregations of churches looked out for Harold. Denomination never mattered much to him. He sought fellowship and he found it in many. Perhaps, that is why Harold’s service was held in the Catholic Church where he was baptized, followed by a luncheon in the Roblin Wesleyan Church where he spent many a Sunday morning. There is no doubt, this list could go on and on, filling pages of those worthy of being noted for their good deeds and kindness toward Harold, but maybe instead of trying to list everyone it is more important that we focus on the bigger picture. All of the friendship and support he received everywhere he went made it possible for Harold to live and die exactly the way he wanted. He told Cliff many times and repeated not so long ago, “I want to live on the farm till I die, and I want to die in Napanee with lots of people around me.” The feedback from the medical staff, including a coroner, points to the fact that Harold’s last conscious breath was likely taken in the No Frills store in Napanee on Thursday, January the 5th, before he fell to the floor. Four days later, on January 9, 2011, in the KGH ICU, Harold peacefully succumbed to the complications of a heart attack.

Harold brought out the best in most of us by just being Harold. Harold Flanagan was chicken soup for our souls. He will be leaving an empty space in so many places - at the benches in the malls, on the sides of the roads, in the back seats of cars, and on the grass on the lawns at the auctions. Mostly, he will be leaving an emptiness in our hearts - an emptiness created by a kind, gentle man, who chose to live his life the way he wanted and not the way society dictated; someone who never judged others and who rose above those who teased, taunted, and judged him; someone who had a special gift to bring out an abundance of goodness and goodwill in others. Could this have been his purpose? With Harold’s final resting place in the Catholic cemetery near the homestead, beside his parents, one of Mother Teresa’s quotes comes to mind. “IN THIS LIFE, WE CANNOT DO GREAT THINGS. WE CAN ONLY DO SMALL THINGS WITH GREAT LOVE.ʼ