Julius Morry, writes his son Jeffrey, taught him that the only meaning of possessions is what we attribute to them.
Julius Morry (left) with his son, Jeff, in his old basement workshop. (Photograph by Skye Spence)
“Can you tell where it broke?” This was a common refrain of you throughout my childhood. In 1970, when I was nine years old, you quit your job as a hospital administrator in Winnipeg with plans for our family to move to Los Angeles. But the Byzantine paperwork and impending bills for a family of six made you realize that staying in Canada and turning a hobby into a job made more sense. Also, there was a concern that my brother and I might be recruited. So, with a purpose-built workshop in our basement, he embarked on what became a 50-year career and counting on the restoration of works of art.
Although you inherited your talents from your artistic Russian mother, who had a hobby repairing damaged parts for your friends, you took it to a sacred level. I understood the degree of your ability by how often my grandmother ordered you (in Yiddish) goldene hen, golden hands.
You couldn’t have picked a better time to start your business. It was a period when collecting decorative arts such as statuettes, carvings, earthenware, dolls, and glassware, many of them antiques, was very popular. On a regular basis, you would call me at your workshop, introduce me to a part that you had repaired, and ask if I could tell you where it had broken.
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My childhood and adolescence were filled with clients showing up on our doorstep with a fascinating variety of pieces from around the world. Most were crushed beyond recognition. Insurance and moving companies, auction houses, art stores and galleries, personal collectors, and museums kept him full of work. I soon got to know exotic names like Lalique, Lladró, Waterford, Swarovski, Hummel, Wedgwood, and the Royals: Doulton, Albert, and Worcester.
His workshop was like a private art gallery with pieces that rotate regularly. The shelves were stocked with everything from tapestries to paintings to pocket watches to stuffed animals. And so many crucifixes. Only when I was older did I realize how interesting it was that my Jewish father probably restored hundreds of crucifixes over the decades.
Every now and then I would sneak out to see what wonderful new pieces had arrived. He would be sitting at his workbench surrounded by walls packed with neatly organized tools and tricks of the trade. Even though you delivered the work with your hands, I knew it was your eyes, heart, and intellect that mapped the process.
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There was a category of pieces that had the biggest impact on me. Inuit soapstone sculptures and whale carvings were a common sight in the workshop. As I matured, I became increasingly drawn to these works of art, which I felt gave me a powerful insight into the essence of the North.
Unique customers resonated the most. Sometimes I would glance quickly from the kitchen to the front door or hear whispers of pain through my bedroom door. I was able to hear the pleas for a stay of execution that were made to him as a judge in the court of last instance. There were the older women with precious dolls from their childhood. Or the frenzied teens begging you to repair a damaged part during a forbidden house party. Or people, many of them immigrants, with the remains of broken family heirlooms. Many of these items had little monetary value. But they were priceless in their emotional value, ties to loved ones from the past, inviolable connections to family memories, and their legacy to future generations. Your sorcery restored everything perfectly, often creating missing parts out of nothing. I never got tired of seeing the tears of joy from those customers. For some, you drew their youth out of old age.
Your career opened my young mind to the world and taught me that people, not things, are the true treasures: the only meaning of possessions is what we attribute to them.
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As for his continual questions about where a piece had broken, I could never tell.
You are now 88 years old and have restored tens of thousands of items. While surgeons repair broken bodies, you have operated a one-man hospital repairing shattered souls, reestablishing family ties, restoring lost dreams, and restoring lost memories.
This essay appears in print in the December 2021 issue of Maclean’s magazine with the title “Dear Daddy”. Subscribe to the monthly print magazine here.
The piece is part of Maclean’s The Before You Go series, which collects unique and heartfelt letters from Canadians who take the time to say “Thank you, I love you” to special people in their lives, because we shouldn’t have to wait until it’s too late to tell our loved ones dear how we really feel. Read more essays here. If you’d like to see your own letters or reflections published, email us here. For more details on how to submit yours, Click here.
Reference-www.macleans.ca