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Family & Friends: Memoirs: Three

by Harry Furniss

266 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-0135; ISBN 1-55395-772-5; US$23.50, C$27.00, EUR19.50, £13.50

In his third book of memoirs, Harry Furniss winds up a humorous and off-beat reverie of his adventurous 80-year life. Many pen and ink illustrations by the author.

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about the book      about the author      excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book In this third volume of Memoirs dealing with the life and times of Harry Furniss, the author offers intimate profiles of some of the magnificent characters who have played on his personal stage -- notable family members, outstanding friends, memorable teachers and guides along the path of life, and fanciful dreams of what might have been. Furniss started writing radio dramas in his spare time during World War Two while flying on operations with the Royal Canadian Air Force. He then spent a dozen years as a journalist with the Toronto Telegram, Reuters news agency in London, England, and The Vancouver Province, before opening his own Public Relations firm which lead to major consulting assignments in the fields of corporate communications and advertising.

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About the Author With this third and final volume of Memoirs, author Harry Furniss winds up ahumorous and off-beat reverie of his adventurous life and times over the past 80 years. In volume one, The Flying Game, Furniss vividly recreated perilous moments of wartime flying with the RCAF and his capture by the Germans. And, after a lapse of 40 years, the thrill of flying again as a civilian where he contrasted the old and the new of this most exciting profession. In volume two, Sea Fever, Furniss waxed nostalgic about his hobby of building and cruising pleasure boats on the rugged coast of British Columbia for more than 40 years. In this final volume, Family & Friends, Furniss offers intimate profiles of some of the fascinating people he has met along the pathways of life, and reflects on his own varied achievements. The author now lives in contented retirement with his wife Enid on Vancouver Island, British Columbia.

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Excerpts

 I am now a spy, swimming ashore in the Bosphorus to reconnoitre the siege of Troy as Greek soldiers hammered together the wooden horse. My idea, of course.

I am welcomed at the water’s edge by the deliciously naughty Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world. She lay starkers on a beach towel, just waiting for some handsome stud (ahem) to make her day.

By the time a Nubian slave walloped the dinner gong we were well into the aperitivos and I christened her Little Kumquat after my favourite brand of Turkish Delight.

* * *

Victorians were uncommonly witty. Two bitter enemies found themselves on Punch magazine in its early days. "Now we row in the same boat," said Albert Smith. "Yes, but not with the same skulls," said Douglas Jerrold.

* * *

Good artists seldom make good businessmen. The hot creative temperament and the cool financial mind do not often inhabit the same body.

Harry Furniss (my Grandfather) did tens of thousands of drawings during his lifetime and reaped a fortune. In reflection he said that at every stage he was underpaid, robbed, plagiarized, and swindled. One venture alone "ownership of the Pall Mall Budget " ate up £75,000 in a matter of weeks. And those were full-value 1895 pounds sterling.

* * *

Visited mon frère Georges (wrote old friend Les Powell) and picked up this whimsical sally. It pertains to a fabulously wealthy Arab sheik (are there other kinds?) who wanted to invest in the USA. His embassy recommended a shrewd New York legal eagle, to wit, Sam Regardway. The relationship was so mutually profitable that the aged sheik decided to include good old Sam in his will and he thought it would be appropriate to leave the lawyer his entire harem. Sure enough, when the potentate died, Sam received a copy of the will and there it was written in black and white: “Give my broads to old Regardway!”

* * *

Many observers link art with BEAUTY, which may or may not be visual. The word is as slippery as TALENT or HAPPINESS. But one thing seems clear to me: not only does a well-conceived piece of artwork communicate its beauty but it also moves the viewer to considerable emotion.

* * *

Cousin John suffered another awkward moment with a firearm. He leapt out of bed one dark night in San Gabriel, California, and trapped a would-be intruder on the front lawn. At the exact moment that he roared “don't move or I’ll blow your balls off,” two police cars arrived and lit up the scene with searchlights. In the middle of the picture, now being witnessed by all the neighbours, stood Cousin John wearing nothing but his shotgun and a wrist watch. Got the thief, though.

* * *

Harry rested on the oars and looked around. In the blackness ahead men could be seen on the shore with flashlights. Above the noise of waves lapping the beach he and Pat could hear voices and the odd shout of command. As their skiff rocked in the chop, one of the flashlights pointed towards them, then swung off a few points and blinked out some sort of code. Turning to follow it, they saw an answering flash from the water. Then someone lit a cigarette and in the brief flare-up of the match they glimpsed the silhouette of the wheelhouse of a large fish boat. The powerful engine growled softly as the skipper edged in closer to the mouth of the river. A deck light flashed on revealing seven or eight men putting a large power-tender over the side. A curse rang out and the light went off.

* * *

Dad's nickname in wartime (wrote my sister Monica) was Fiery, because of his red hair, and it was used as a password on the front lines in France at one time. His temperament was fiery, too. One night, home on a brief leave, he hopped into a cab in London and gave Mum's suburban address . . . they weren't married then. The cab driver didn't want to go that far out of the city so Dad pulled out his .45 Webly revolver and said DRIVE! Another time he arrived home at Hastings late at night. His mother called out of the upstairs window in a voice that reverberated around the neighbourhood — “you can’t come in until you've been to the de-lousing station!”

* * *

Uncle Will, like his father, became a druggist and operated stores in Vancouver B.C. and later the small towns of Kent and Sumner in Washington, near Seattle. He holds the family record for longevity, dying at age 97. Right to the end he maintained his home, gardened, drove his car and played golf each day. Shot a hole-in-one on his 95th birthday.

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Catalogue Information

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