10. The Stamp Collector’s Philosophy

I didn’t even have a chance to take off my coat. The first thing my father did when I entered his little retirement apartment was wave an envelope in front of me, an exaggerated display of feigned indignation on his face. He was holding up the card I mailed to him for his ninety-fifth birthday.

“Why would you choose such an ugly stamp?” he asked.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

In the world of a devoted philatelist, my choice was indeed a faux pas. I had affixed a nondescript permanent stamp—the ones you buy on rolls with the profile of the Queen—on this envelope. My father, the stamp collector, was not impressed.

In every home he'd ever inhabited, bookcase shelves were filled with binders and binders of a carefully curated treasury of stamps. He loved to show them to any person who indicated even remote interest. If he met someone new, he always asked if they had any stamps. It was a great icebreaker. He wondered if they had stamps from whatever country they or their families were from.

“No relatives? Well, maybe you have friends?”

Everywhere he went, people saved stamps for him. His friends, the bank teller, his priest, shop owners who knew his name, even his family doctor all dutifully saved stamps for his collection. And in those twilight years plagued by a litany of falls and emergency room visits, he asked the nurses and doctors if they had any stamps. What doctor could keep a charming nonagenarian for further tests when, rather than dwell on his latest fall, he would cheerfully inquire about their potential stamp offerings? It was a masterful deflection, his philatelic passion doubling as the perfect get-out-of-jail strategy.

My father cut off the stamps on the corners of all the envelopes he ever received and soaked the little squares and rectangles of paper in bowls filled with warm water to soften the adhesive. Using special tweezers, he'd carefully remove and press each stamp between a newspaper weighted by books to dry. Under a magnifying glass, he examined them—any imperfect edges diminished the philatelic value. I would watch him at his desk holding up his prized finds, squinting and examining the stamps.

If he wasn’t sure about one of his treasures, he consulted the Scott Standard Postage Stamp Catalogue, a thick and expensive volume he received annually for free by charming the local librarian, who donated the previous year’s catalogue to him when the new one arrived at the public library. Sorted piles awaited placement in binders or in envelopes destined to be traded with another collector. As a child, I saw my mother's exasperation as his benign invasion multiplied, slowly staking claim to more shared territory.

Like clockwork, commemorative First Day Covers arrived every few weeks—from Canada Post and his devoted good friend Krystyna in Warsaw. Each time a new stamp was issued, these First Day Covers were sent to collectors. They featured beautiful illustrations related to the stamp's subject—a famous person, event or landmark—and a special postmark. Krystyna's First Day Covers and Polish stamps, arriving for nearly 50 years, were the prized jewels of his collection.

I contributed only one set of First Day Covers to his vast collection. The stamps were issued on April 17, 1982, when the Canadian constitution and charter of rights were signed on Parliament Hill in Ottawa. I witnessed the signing ceremony with Queen Elizabeth and Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau. As a young political assistant working for a cabinet minister, I had a seat in the VIP section. I invited my youngest sister to attend with me. We walked to the Hill, and as I presented my fancy embossed invitation card, no one asked us to walk through a metal detector or subjected us to any security inquisition.

The next day, all the newspapers carried a photo of the signing ceremony. Prime Minister Trudeau sat beaming on the Queen’s right, and the Clerk of the Privy Council stood behind her, showing her where to put her signature. The Queen wore a teal suit with the royal insignia pinned on her lapel and a matching hat. I was metres away. As the daughter of immigrants, the privilege of attending this auspicious event was not lost on me.

The four commemorative First Day envelopes I had secured each had one of the corners of the larger stamp sheet. In a blend of historical significance and filial devotion, I had them autographed by the Prime Minister and Minister of Justice, Jean Chrétien, then mounted and framed as a gift for my father. He hung this up on the wall beside his desk in every place he lived.

Throughout his life, my father used the services of an agent named John, a retired teacher he’d met at a stamp show. Over the years, he asked John to sell his duplicates or parts of his collection. They never discussed prices because my father trusted his stamp agent completely. A cheque from John would arrive occasionally, and my father didn’t question the amount. He had made up his mind long ago to believe in people's inherent goodness and honesty, and he was seldom disappointed.

Within weeks of moving to the retirement home, he had everyone there saving stamps for him. He held court during meals in the dining room as one person after another gravitated to his table and brought an offering. Many had scoured old letters, and others came with the ubiquitous permanent stamps like the one I had put on the birthday card. My father thanked each person profusely as if they had bestowed the greatest gift. And so, the stamps always kept coming.

I did not inherit the stamp-collecting gene. But when my father questioned my stamp selection on the birthday card, I understood that my role as the philatelist’s daughter was to purchase the most beautiful stamps I could find to adorn the few letters I mail. Now, I affix a pretty or interesting stamp even if I mail a cheque to pay a bill.

My father was right that day. I have a choice.